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"Missing" (the seventy-ninth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Missing" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), Mar. 15, 2007 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Missing By Ken Staley kstaley@gmail.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| By the time I was old enough to know
better, the Aunties – Ruth and Mabel – had lived together for some
years. From late summer until almost Halloween, the two sisters picked us up
and walked us down to Uncle Ed's store to wait for the school bus. To my mind,
they were, and still are, a real caution. On many school days, they fetched
cups of coffee from Uncle Ed's Store, one for my little brother - with extra
cream and sugar - Dakota, one for me, and an extra for the bus driver, most
days. Thanks to the Aunties, we got hooked on coffee early, Dakota and I.
"Why you givin her a cup?" I demanded one day when I was particularly upset with the driver and didn't care if she got anything, much less a cup of Uncle Ed's coffee. "Myrna Jane been haulin' the likes of your young butt around this county for generations, I swain," Ruth said. "She deserves a medal of honor, seems to me, but coffee is what we got." KENDALL GROCERY squatted just fifty feet up the lane from a really bad curve in old Highway Fifty-two, its peeling, white-wash clap board and tin roof streaked with rust pleaded for attention that never came. To us, it was always Uncle Ed's store and the best place in Boiling Cherry Hollow for the school bus to stop. In the late summer and early spring, the two Aunties perched outside on old, pressed steel lawn chairs. As they got older, shawls and old comforters and seat cushions joined them, but to my mind, they never missed a school day. Uncle Ed called them his cigar store Indians, but never in their hearing. He wasn't far wrong as Auntie Mabel always claimed we had Cherokee blood in our past. Auntie Ruth may have been a might older, but it was the same, for all that. She braided her hair with colorful bits of cloth, the tresses hanging almost to her lap. Ruth went grey very slowly. "See, it's kids that do it to ya," she said one hot September afternoon when it was too hot to stay inside the store. She let a handful of her tresses fall across her face like a graying theater curtain. Cross-eyed, she singled out the grey strands. "I paint them fresh every morning just to remind me." "Really?" My brother, who still believed in Santa and the Easter Bunny, crawled into her lap to examine those hairs closer. "This'n here is Eddie Earl," she said as she singled out a grey hair. "This'n here is my first grey hair. My son, Elbert, give it to me when I was still babyin. He gimme lots and I still gotta paint a new one now and then for El." "Which one is mine?" He asked seriously. That got him hugged and a great peal of laughter from the Aunties. Auntie Ruth had little girl's laugh. Auntie Mabel's cackle was the butt of many jokes from the gathering inside. "You two tryin to lay eggs again?" Uncle Ed called from inside the store. "He's the one," Auntie Mabel said of Uncle Ed. "I turned grey all at once and it's all his fault!" Auntie Mabel once had lovely chestnut hair. Now she wore it in a tight bun pulled severely away from her face. "Time was I had a friend who chased all the grey away," Mabel explained to Dakota, who was still examining Ruth's hair closely. "Really? Where did she go then?" They laughed again but Mabel wasn't quite ready to give it up just yet. "Why her name was Miss Clairol," Mabel told him. "She lived in a bottle." "Oh she didn' neither," Dakota said with his own bashful smile. He was still missin his two front teeth at the time. "I swain, right hand afore God," Mabel lifted her left hand. "She lived in a bottle and came out about four times a year just to make your Auntie Mabel look pretty." She cocked her chin to one side and up, batted her eyes at him, and put her hand behind her head, striking a 'glamour pose'. "Did the bottle break then?" Dakota asked, now taken in. The Aunties laughed aloud again but Dakota, being too young, missed his barb. Mostly the Aunties taught us about life, in their own fashion. They sat in those chairs, day in and day out and inspected every visitor to Ed's store without comment – well, mostly without comment. "That's Daisy Richardson," Mabel hissed to Ruth one afternoon in the late fall as a large woman went in to do her shopping. "No!" Ruth said and turned for another look, but the dust collected in the screen door didn't allow much more than a peek at her silhouette. "What happened to her?" "Kids," Mabel leaned back, assuming an air of deeper insight, "and that no account man she shacked up with so long. She done had eight of his before he disappeared. You remember. 'Twas in all the papers." "But she got so big," Ruth said. "I 'member her in high school as this little bird of a thing." "Still would be, too, I'm guessin'," Mabel said. "But she got the women's problems and swelled up like a balloon. I heard tell she been seein' that herb doctor back up the draw some, but don't look like he's helped much." Another day, another visitor; a man this time, with a funny lurch and almost a hesitation in his walk. He came to the door, tried to peer through the dirty screen and opened it cautiously, like someone was about to scold him for being there. "Rory the simple," Ruth said. "He rode the other bus when I was in school. Nice enough boy but jumped at any loud sound." "What's wrong with him?" Dakota said. "Hold your piece," Ruth scolded. "God done scrambled his brains good when he was born. Ain't no call for you to be remindin him he ain't all there. He knows that already." It was mid October, I remember, when the Aunties became all too human. I remember clearly the pumpkins and corn stalks bunched together in front of Ed's store, along with bushels of acorns we collected. An Indian summer crept up the hollow and made collecting acorns thirsty work. Uncle Ed paid us a dollar a bushel. "They gotta have their caps on now, hear? Them tourists love acorns and'll buy a ton of 'em, but they gotta have their caps on," he said by way of direction. It was easy money. We brought back two heaping bushels, leaving an acorn trail back up the path to out favorite oak. Dakota disappeared inside and I sat on a free spot on the rail, fanning myself, trying to get cool. Auntie Ruth reached into her pocket for her fixins', another ritual, usually in the morning. She carefully laid two thin papers on her lap, took her pouch and lightly sprinkled the fillings, then deftly rolled the whole thing, slipping it into her mouth to seal the paper as a last move. Time was, she let Dakota or I light her smokes. I guess I was just too old for that treat now. I must have been a teenager by then, or very close, because what had always been Auntie Ruth's fixins now took on a whole new meaning. Ruth and Mabel always shared their smokes, explaining to me once that "the cost is too dear to waste." Truth was, Auntie Ruth's 'home grown' consisted of half tobacco and half sensimilla. Shock must have registered on my face. Ruth and Mabel laughed almost as loud as I'd ever heard them. "How the mighty slip from their pedestals, eh Mabel?" Ruth said as she gasped for air. "Would you like some, Janey Sue?" "I would not!" I'd heard the horror stories. I'd seen the burned out husks at my school, generally boys from bad families. It was a few years later, and a child or two, before I enjoyed the Aunties recipe of morning coffee and smoke. About that time, Dakota brought out our Dr. Peppers, filled with peanuts. He settled on a chopping block the same time Ruth farted. It was a gentle thing, would have passed without notice and only slight embarrassment, but Dakota was there and still thrilled with bodily functions, the way young boys can be. With a snort, Dr. Pepper squirted from his nose. "You farted!" He called when he could speak again. "Why Dakota Edward James, I never," Ruth exclaimed indignantly. "If you please, sir, women do not fart." "You did so," Dakota said. "I heard you." "That warn't no fart," Mabel said. "Was, too," Dakota argued. "No it warn't," Mabel said. "That couldn't have been a fart. Ruth didn' go no where or raise up at all. Now this is a fart." With that, she leaned over and passed gas – loudly - to be polite. Dakota howled with laughter. Ruth blushed just a bit, then leaned over and tooted two or three times, only to be answered by Mabel's trombone one note. Our laughter brought Uncle Ed to the door this time, something rare. "She farted," Dakota said as he pointed at Ruth, "then she farted. They been havin' a battle of the farts." "Musical ass holes, huh?" Uncle Ed snorted and returned to his circle. Laughter from inside showed that he'd shared the news. My guess is those old boys inside did their best to match the Aunties, but they had a long, long way to go. Sisters separated by less than two years, in my mind the Aunties were always a staple in my life. I can't remember a day in childhood that passed that I didn't see them. Auntie Mabel went first, so slowly we hardly noticed for a few years. Ruth noticed. "She just missing sometimes," she said one day with a smile as Mabel picked at the front of her flowered dress. "Seems like these streaks get longer and longer where she just sort of takes off in her mind someplace. Wish I knew where that was." Eventually, they had to take Mabel in for a physical. The news was grim, so grim that they couldn't tell Dakota or I. "You just keep a special eye on Mabel when she's around," Uncle Ed said a few days later. "You make sure she don't go wandering off somewhere." "Why would she leave?" Dakota demanded. "Never you mind. Your job is just to make sure she don't go alone." Ruth followed close on, sure enough. Another trip down the mountains, another grim diagnosis. I was in high school by then and nearly at the top of my class. I guessed at first, then did some research. Sure enough, the Aunties had Alzheimer's. Worse, for all they did for me and mine, there wasn't a thing I could do for them but be there, I guess. I had a long talk with Uncle Ed. "I can make it up next year," I said as I offered to stop school and sit with the Aunties. "Really, Uncle Ed, I can go down the junior college over in Macon." "No," Ed said flatly and would brook no further argument. "Look, honey, this could take years and years. The doctor don' know himself how long. You finish that high school and get your scholarship, you hear? We're proud of you and if you quit now, you're going to make a lot of people sad and angry. My sister's will be just fine as long as they remember where their chairs are out front." Although Ruth started later, her degeneration came much quicker. Within a year, whatever there was that made Ruth was missing. It was no longer a joy to see Mabel leading her to her chair. Now, to keep Ruth steady and 'home' Mabel kept her on a kiddie leash. I sat by her, day after day, usually reading a story. Sometimes Ruth demanded the Bible, although she rarely, if ever, attended services that I recall. She did so love the Psalms. Mabel slipped away quietly, but much much further. Ruth seemed to have some deep seated understanding of home and hearth. Mabel wanted to roam, to visit places she'd heard about but never seen. One Saturday when I caught her, she had an old grass suitcase, filled with flowers and two jars of molasses. "Paris," she said when I asked where she was off to. "Are you on the train to Paris, too?" "Why yes, I am," I replied as I took her arm. "Why don't we just sit in the waiting room they have here. It's ever so much nicer than standing out here in the rain." Ruth was given to fits of crying, which usually brought Mabel down as well. Crying over people that she'd never known, men she'd never met, I'm sure. "Oh Cal, Cal," she wept bitterly one day from her bed. "Why did you go Cal? Where did you go? Why didn't you take me with you Cal?" "Not that I know," Uncle Ed said that evening when he stopped by. "She dated lots of guys, true enough, but I don't recall a Cal." It took three years – three very long years – before they were completely missing and unable to communicate at all. Ed followed shortly on, although he's not completely missing just yet. We've put him in a home now. How I wish we had time to sit with him as I did with the Aunties, but life presses on without relief and Ed needs more attention than I can give. According to the nurses, he still gets up every morning at five and dresses for work in his store, going over lists of items and produce he needs to order. He sits in a soft chair near the fireplace and has conversations with friends, mostly long gone now. Still in all, he's sprightly enough for someone in his eighties. Scooter Davis and his brother, Big Al, now run Kendall Grocery. It's still standing, much as it always has, at that sweeping corner of State Route fifty two. Of course, the state has repaved and widened the shoulders some, but the school bus still stops and my kids always meet me there at the end of the day. "I sure do miss 'em," Scooter said one hot August day as we waited for the bus. He and Big Al sat in the Aunties' chairs. "They be missing, sure enough," Big Al said. "When you suppose they comin back?" I had no answer for him. They weren't really missing, not truly. When things get too tense or too heavy, when life just seems too oppressive, one of us farts. Dakota and I still break into uncontrollable laughter when we're together. And it's their fault. |
| Missing By lins.writing@yahoo.com (Entry #7) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| “Coming through the door was
this great big rooster,” Daniele said. “I know it was a rooster
because it crowed. It was bigger than Tuffy. I mean that thing stood almost
four feet tall. It marched right through the kitchen. Then it marched down the
hall to my bedroom. I had to follow it to see what it was going to do in my
room. It didn’t seem like a dream either. I know it was real.”
“What did you eat before bed?” “Oh Mom, get serious. This giant crowing chicken comes into the house and I’m supposed to tell you what I ate for supper? Anyway, I stood in the doorway so he couldn’t get out of my room. Walking to my dresser, he flew up and started pecking at the stack of clean clothes on top of it. Shirts, shorts, socks flew everywhere. I jumped into the room flapping my arms up and down to distract him, but all it did was get him excited. He furiously beat his wings, screeched and ran around the room in wild-eyed terror then grabbed my locket and flew out the window. What do you think about that, Mom?” “I have no idea. This isn’t a way to get out of cleaning your room, is it?” Mom asked, tapping her foot. “No. I’ll do it after breakfast. It was so weird and it felt real. I did find a feather on the windowsill, too. You don’t think it was real do you?” Daniele said pouting. “Come on, Daniele. You’re ten years old. You know better than that. Some dreams are just that – dreams - nothing more, but they do seem real at the time.” “Fine. I’ll clean my room, but if I find more feathers or, or…droppings, then you’ll believe it was real. I bet I don’t find my locket either.” Daniele stomped out of the room. When she got to the doorway, she peeked around the corner in case he came back. Breathing a sigh of relief, she entered the room. It certainly looked like something ransacked it. Tuffy, her Sheltie, lay across her bed. “Come on Tuffy, help me find more feathers. I know it was real, not a dream.” Tuffy jumped down and started sniffing under the bed. “Is he under there?” Daniele sank down and slowly slid across the rug to the foot of the bed, flipped the blanket up and saw nothing. “False alarm - keep looking.” Picking up the shirts that remained folded, she stuffed them in a drawer. She shoved some socks and shorts in the next drawer. Folding the last shirt from the floor, she noticed a kernel of corn under desk chair. “How could that get in here? Mom, I found some corn in here. I bet the rooster brought it in.” “Right,” she said, walking into the room. She leaned against the wall. “We had corn on the cob last night and you probably tracked it in on your shoe. You’re doing a good job of cleaning up this mess. You should be done by the middle of next week.” “Thanks. I don’t think it’ll take me that long. Do we have any of those scented garbage bags? I think it would help with the barnyard smell in here. Don’t tell me you don’t smell that.” “Don’t get snotty with me, girl. I think what you smell is Tuffy. She ran through the sprinkler this morning and needs a bath. When you finish your room, you can make that your next project,” her mom said, leaving the room. “Thanks again. I used to look forward to Saturdays,” she muttered. Daniele patted Tuffy’s head. It was damp, but she was sure that wasn’t the reason for the smell. She picked up her homework sheets from the desk and put them in her book bag. Now all that remained was the pile of dirty clothes next to the hamper under the window. Gathering it up to cram it in the hamper, she saw something streak across the back yard. “Mom! Look out in the back yard. I think it’s the rooster. I saw something dart into the bushes.” No answer. Daniele raced to the kitchen, but Mom wasn’t there. She wasn’t in the living room either, or her parent’s bedroom. Tuffy seemed wary and followed very close to her heels. “Mom, where are you? Don’t you want to see the rooster? Come on, answer me. This is getting spooky. Where are you?” Still no answer. Daniele slipped out the back door then scooted to the bushes where the thing dashed through. She heard a ruckus from the neighbors’ yard and carefully peered over the hedge. There in the middle of the yard was a rooster, not as big as the one in her house, but a rooster nonetheless. Her mother and father were waving their arms trying to keep it from going into Mr. Hartman’s garage while he and Mrs. Hartman came around the backside of it with a net. Mrs. Hartman jumped up and down as Mr. Hartman swung the net from right to left trying to catch it. On the second swing, he got it. Feathers flew in all directions and the screeching scared Tuffy back into the house. “Mom, I told you there was a rooster in my room last night. I bet he stole my locket too,” Daniele said, clambering through the bushes. “Sorry, honey. You were right; it wasn’t a dream.” Mom admitted, stroking Daniele’s hair and picking out a twig. “We didn’t see any locket, but maybe if you look all around the yard you’ll find it,” said Mrs. Hartman. Daniele searched for over an hour, to no avail. She was sure the rooster ate it or Mrs. Hartman kept it for herself. “Daniele, please give Tuffy her bath and don’t make a mess like you did last time,” Mom said, calling from the kitchen. “May I do it in the tub?” “NO! I don’t want all that dog hair clogging the drain. Do it downstairs.” “Okay, I’ll wear my swimsuit and boots. She usually shakes off and I get wetter than her.” Opening the closet, she noticed something shiny in the corner under her boots. Moving her boots, she saw her locket with the chain stuck under the baseboard. Daniele raced back into the kitchen brandishing the locket. “Mom! Mom, I found my locket. The rooster didn’t eat it after all. It was in the closet under my boots.” “How do you think it got in there?” Mom asked, raising her eyebrows. “I remember putting it in the pocket of my jacket on the way home from school yesterday. The clasp was bent and I was afraid I’d loose it. I forgot all about that happening. I guess I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. It did look like the rooster took something from my dresser and I thought it had to be my locket. Sorry.” “The case of the missing locket is officially closed. Want to help me make a salad? Mr. and Mrs. Hartman invited us for a cook out. They said we’re having grilled chicken,” Mom said, winking. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #3 Second place: #7 Third place: #2 Fourth place (tie): #6, #8, #9 Others receiving votes: #1 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Missing glenlee10@sky.com |
#1 of 10 |
| 676 words | |
| I live in the same village as a family that has lost a
child. The child did not go missing from our village but that fact does
nothing to lessen the trauma of the four thousand people who live here.
Our village, Rothley, in Leicestershire in the centre of England, is an ancient site of habitation. It was mentioned in the Doomsday Book of 1086 but our people were here, on the banks of the River Soar, long before then. When the McCann’s four-year old daughter, Madeleine, went missing from a holiday apartment in Portugal last May, their world was destroyed and ours was turned upside down. Though we live in the same village, I didn’t know the McCanns. I know them now and I know all that they do on a day-to-day basis. They are a young, talented couple who live in a smart house. I am a single mother, living in a terraced house. Our lives had no need to cross. They still don’t, yet I have been dragged into their affairs. When Madeleine disappeared the village seethed with gossip, conjecture and pure guesswork. The pubs became quite heated with arguments over a beer. For months there were only two topics of conversation in my local, the Royal Oak on Cross Green; football and the McCanns. Then, in September, the remaining McCanns returned home, without Madeleine. And the worldwide media gathered on our streets. Sometimes we felt there were more of them than there were of us. We lost our precious peace. We grew weary of the attention. Now, we cross the street when we see someone holding a microphone and we duck when a helicopter passes overhead. We rarely visit the pubs anymore. The barman at the Royal Oak was reported in the press as saying that the locals, “don’t dare leave home!” This is no exaggeration. The McCanns are not Leicestershire people and therein lies much of the conflict that sours our home. There is a great deal of resentment at the trouble they have brought. Some say, if this couple, with their careless ways, had not left the North, “where they belong”, there wouldn’t have been this turbulent media invasion, which pokes into every corner of our lives. Others argue that the couple are doctors and the people of Leicestershire therefore, have benefited greatly from their presence amongst us. But worse is the basic argument that tears us apart. The perceived negligence of the McCann prevents many people from giving their sympathy but what parent amongst us has not known that heart-stopping moment when the child, whose hand you were holding only a second ago, has gone, disappeared into a jostling, suddenly hostile crowd? I have a blonde, four-year old daughter. She looks a little like Madeleine and strangers to the village stare hard when they see her. I don’t let her out of my sight until I can hand her over to another trusted adult at nursery school while I work and every second I’m apart from my child, I worry. The woman who manages the nursery says that I am not the only one. Even now, nine months after Madeleine’s disappearance, many parents telephone the school every day, checking up on their child. I am one of those nervous parents. This is behaviour which the McCann’s predicament has taught me. On occasion, media interest begins to wane and the streets start to empty of vans with their thick cables that umbilical them to our village. Then there is the report of yet another sighting of Madeleine somewhere in the world and the buzz starts up again. The yellow ribbons, the teddy bears, the notes and the cards are removed from the village square after a respectful period and this must be the only village in the world that doesn’t have Madeleine’s face everywhere, because we have no need to be reminded that one of our children is missing. Our mail is still addressed to Rothley but the McCanns are living in Hell. The rest of us reside in Limbo. |
|
| Missing Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#2 of 10 |
| 2270 words | |
| Stinky Matty discovered, quite by accident one
otherwise uneventful Tuesday morning, that he could fly. It all began when he closed his eyes, held his arms out at his side, and farted. Now, in the strictest aeronautical sense of the word, as it is commonly used in everyday conversation, Stinky Matty wasn't technically flying. For he did not fly the way birds fly. Or bees. Or even mosquitoes, for that matter. In fact, he didn't even fly the way flying squirrels fly (which is also not technically a method of flying, but labels being what they are, flying squirrels are called flying squirrels even if they don't really fly). As one might expect, Stinky Matty wasn't very good at it at first, this flying-farting thing of his. For one thing, he noticed, almost immediately, that he had a tendency to bump into things. Trees mostly, but also telephone lines, balconies, kites, mountain tops and the occasional bird. Of course, when a boy and a bird are gliding across the sky one moment and bouncing off each other the next, who can say for sure which was the one that did the bumping, and which was the one that got bumped. It's not as if there are roads up there. Or stop lights. Or policemen with tweeting whistles and white gloves directing the flow of traffic. Not to mention the fact that nobody bothers to use turn signals. Despite the aforementioned bumping aspect of the activity, Stinky Matty loved to fly more than anything else in the world. He loved it more than baseball. He loved it more than watching television. And he definitely loved it more than going to school. As you might expect, it was not the kind of thing that made his mother very happy. "Stinky Matty," she would often say to her son over breakfast, "you've got to back to school. You've got to learn to read and write. Why, without an education, you'll never amount to anything in this world." "But Mom," Stinky Matty would answer politely while sprinkling some bird seed on his cereal, "I'm already the most famous boy in all the world." Stinky Matty had a point, and his mother should have known to leave well enough alone. But, mothers being what mothers are, she never did. "Do you want people to call you bird brain?" she would ask. "Because that's what they're going to do, young man, if you don't go to school. Is that what you want? To be called 'Bird Brain Matty' for the rest of your life?" Now another boy - a boy named Stinky Pete or Stinky Joe, for example - would have jumped at the chance to be called something besides Stinky. Why, even a name like Fang Tooth Willie would have been an improvement. But Stinky Matty wasn't like other boys. "Of course not, Mom," he would say. "I wouldn't want to be called something like that. Why, that would be just terrible." And so every morning Stinky Matty would finish his cereal, take his lunch box from the counter, kiss his mother tenderly upon the cheek, and walk very normally out the door. Now, in cases like this, there is no way to know for sure what Stinky Matty's intentions were. He may very well have intended to walk all the way to Pecos Elementary School, just like all the other boys and girls in his neighborhood. And, it is theoretically possible that, on any given day, maybe he would have made it all the way to Mrs. Lautenberg's third grade class. In which case, his teacher would have marked him present on the attendance sheet and sent it on to Mr. Porschen, the principal. Without a red "A" next to Stinky Matty's name on the attendance sheet, Mr. Porschen would not have had a reason to pick up his phone and call Stinky Matty's mother. And his mother would have needed to find something else to cry about at nine o'clock in the morning. Of course, a day like that – a day without tears and phone calls and attendance sheets – well, quite frankly, a day like that is the stuff of fairy tales. Anyway, one day – a non-fairy tale kind of day – when Stinky Matty was flying around over near the outlet mall instead of going to school, he met an eagle named Joachim. Now Joachim wasn't just any old ordinary, run-of-the-mill kind of eagle, mind you. No, sir. For Joachim, as it turned out, was none other than The King of the Eagles. "Hey! Watch where you're going there, kid." "Oh, sorry. Didn't see you. This flying thing is still kind of new to me, you know." "It ain't flying," Joachim huffed. "Yeah, I know, but my mother doesn't like me to use that other word. The one that says what it really is." "You mean farting?" "Yeah, that's the word all right," said Stinky Matty, being careful not to say the word itself. "Well, kid," said Joachim, "in case you haven't noticed, your mother's not around up here. You can use whatever word you like." Stinky Matty liked the way Joachim called him "kid." He wasn't particularly fond of being called Stinky Matty. He didn't mind the "Matty" part so much. But that "Stinky" part, he didn't care for that at all. He could see how, in the future, it might cause some problems to have a name like that. For instance, what if he got married some day, and the emcee at the reception said something like, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor to present to you for the first time anywhere, Mr. and Mrs. Stinky Matty Benward?" Still, what Joachim said was true. Stinky Matty's mother wasn't around, and so he supposed he could say "fart" if he wanted to. But before he got a chance to exercise his vocal cords and impress the eagle with his new-found independence, Joachim dipped a wing, caught an updraft and swooped off to the west toward the mountains. Joachim was a master of the air currents. Catching first one, then another and another. Each lifting him higher. Each taking him farther to the west, farther toward the mountains, bathed now as they were in the watermelon-colored hue of a softly setting sun. He soared effortlessly, this king of the king of birds, his feathers skillfully fluffed so as to ride the unseen zephyrs of a crystal blue sky. Stinky Matty farted along behind, doing the best he could to keep up. As Joachim approached his nest, which was snugged into the fork of a ponderosa pine near the peak of a craggy-rock mountain, he flapped his powerful wings and deployed his tail feathers. As gentle as a shadow that falls upon the night, he landed on a branch and tucked his wings up beside him. Stinky Matty bumped and thumped his way onto the branch below. "I love to fly," said the boy, clinging upside down to the branch and trying desperately to right himself. Joachim looked down his beak at the struggling child below, secure in the knowledge that he held the dreams of yet another innocent young lad firmly within the grasp of his talons. "Yeah, it's a beautiful thing to fly, all right." "I know, I know," said Stinky Matty all excited. "That's why I love being a bird." "What makes you think you're a bird, kid?" "Because I can fly!" "Fart," Joachim corrected. "Well, the result is the same," Stinky Matty retorted, still being careful not to say any words that might get him in trouble with his mother. "And besides, I like to eat bird seed." "Bird seed? Hah! You mean that stuff they make for parakeets and canaries? Let me ask you something, kid: you ever see an eagle eat bird seed?" "Well, no, but I can be a bird without being an eagle, can't I?" "Dunno why you'd wanna be," said Joachim, holding up one of his legs and casually checking the sharpness of his claws as he spoke. "Look, I just wanna be a bird, okay? It's been my dream for my whole life. It ain't no fun being a boy. Having to go to school and clean up your room and do things like eat vegetables." "I dunno. Doesn't sound so bad to me." "Oh, a lot you know. Like you've ever had to eat all your spinach before you got dessert or solve a long division problem. You've never had to do those kinds of things, now have you?" "No, but then I am King of the Eagles, you understand. I mean, there are a few fringe benefits that go with the position, if you know what I mean." "Well, if it's all the same to you, I would still rather be a bird than a boy." Joachim took a moment to buff his claws on his chest feathers before he responded. "Think you have what it takes, do you?" "Yes, sir, I do." "It's not all bird seed, you know." "I said I have what it takes." "And you don't mind eating fish?" "Not at all." Stinky Matty loved a good tuna fish sandwich as well as the next kid, especially the way his mother made them, with chopped onions and lots of mayonnaise on white bread with the crust removed. "And squirrels?" "Love 'em," Stinky Matty lied. "And snakes?" "Snakes?" Stinky Matty's stomach did a somersault. "Listen, there's got to be more to being a bird than just what you eat. I mean, there's the flying part and the gliding part and the soaring part. Why aren't you talking about those sorts of things? I can do those things, you know." "All right," said Joachim. "We'll change the subject if you like. So tell me, how do you feel about bullets?" "Bullets? You mean like from rifles? Those kind of bullets?" "I didn't know there were any other kinds." "But what do bullets have to do with being a bird?" "Well, it's not so much the bullets per se. It's more the dodging of the bullets, if you want to be exact about it." "Oh, but nobody would want to shoot me," said Stinky Matty. "I'm famous. I'm Stinky Matty, the world's first and only flying boy. And besides, even if they did try to shoot me, I still would want to be a bird." It is with great relief that spring comes to Pecos. The grass, which turned brown in the fall and slumbered its way through a harsh winter, grows green again and pushes itself up to break the failing grip of the last snowfall. The rivers gargle through the meadows, brimming with icy clear water from the start of a month long snow melt that will nurture the wildflowers until the summer monsoons arrive. Squirrels, their tails twitching with anticipation, dart out from their winter hidey-holes and brush aside clumps of pine straw in search of sweet pinion nut morsels they hid in the fall. Everywhere throughout the west the skies are a cloudless, coloring book blue, and the air tastes as fresh and sugary as life itself. Everywhere, that is, except in Pecos. Oh, the sky is blue in Pecos, all right. As blue and unreal as anywhere else out west. But the air is stinky flatulent, and the residents wear clothespins on their noses. "Swamp gas," they say, one to the other, as they pass on the street. It matters to them not that there are no swamps within fifty miles of the place. And why would they, these otherwise fine and upstanding people, lie to each other and make up stories about swamp gas? Perhaps it is because that, with all the beauty spring brings to Pecos, it also brings with it one more visitor. The Stinky Matty hunters. They have come, these hunters, in search of a one-of-a-kind. The rarest of birds. The rarest of boys. They care not which it is, for either would look fine stuffed and mounted above their fireplace back in Wisconsin or Michigan or Montana. For the most part though, with the exception of the aforementioned clothespins and hunters, springtime finds life in Pecos going on pretty much the way it always has. Families still dress up in shiny shoes and store-bought satin and go to church together on Sundays. Paco, the cook at the Bobcat Cafe, still makes the best green chili cheeseburgers in the county. And young girls drift off to sleep every night with their arms wrapped around their pillows, dreaming they are hugging Barry Manilow. At 8:45 each morning Robert the janitor, who likes to pronounce his name row-BEAR, as if he were French, opens the front doors of Pecos Elementary School, and eager-eyed children bubble their way in. Mrs. Lautenberg waits in the doorway to her classroom until 9:05 before she takes attendance, but the extra time doesn't make any difference. The boys in her class who are coming to school today have already settled into their seats. When they are not too busy teasing the girls on the other side of the room about hugging their pillows, they boast among themselves of how they will grow up to be president. Or a cowboy. Or a professional baseball player. Or fly. Yes, they dream of flying, these young boys of Pecos, of flying just like the eagle who sits perched atop the swing set outside their classroom window. But the boy that Mrs. Lautenberg waits for is not there again today. Regrettably, she places another red "A" next to his name and sends the list on to the principal's office. On the outskirts of town a woman sits on her porch, rocking slowly back and forth and listening to the ring-ring-ring of her telephone. She holds a lunch box on her lap and checks inside again – just one more time – to be sure she remembered to cut the edges off a freshly made tuna fish sandwich. When the last ring of her phone fades back into the silence it used to be, she gets up from her rocking chair and breathes a sigh of relief. A deep, double nostrilled, unclothespinned sigh. For the flatulent stench of the morning air is a smell only a mother could love. "Perhaps," she says aloud while gesturing toward the open lunch box she has left on the railing, "some bird or other of God's creatures will partake of this nourishing meal so that it will not go to waste. Oh, how my darling Stinky Matty so loved his little bird friends." With that, her morning tears begin, and she hurries inside. She does not see the blur that swoops down from a nearby tree to grab the sandwich she has left on the railing. Nor does she hear the whizzing of bullets as they slice their way through the morning air outside her empty home. |
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| Missing Ken Staley kstaley@gmail.com |
#3 of 10 Winner |
| 2426 words | |
| By the time I was old enough to know better, the
Aunties – Ruth and Mabel – had lived together for some years. From
late summer until almost Halloween, the two sisters picked us up and walked us
down to Uncle Ed's store to wait for the school bus. To my mind, they were, and
still are, a real caution. On many school days, they fetched cups of coffee
from Uncle Ed's Store, one for my little brother - with extra cream and sugar -
Dakota, one for me, and an extra for the bus driver, most days. Thanks to the
Aunties, we got hooked on coffee early, Dakota and I. "Why you givin her a cup?" I demanded one day when I was particularly upset with the driver and didn't care if she got anything, much less a cup of Uncle Ed's coffee. "Myrna Jane been haulin' the likes of your young butt around this county for generations, I swain," Ruth said. "She deserves a medal of honor, seems to me, but coffee is what we got." KENDALL GROCERY squatted just fifty feet up the lane from a really bad curve in old Highway Fifty-two, its peeling, white-wash clap board and tin roof streaked with rust pleaded for attention that never came. To us, it was always Uncle Ed's store and the best place in Boiling Cherry Hollow for the school bus to stop. In the late summer and early spring, the two Aunties perched outside on old, pressed steel lawn chairs. As they got older, shawls and old comforters and seat cushions joined them, but to my mind, they never missed a school day. Uncle Ed called them his cigar store Indians, but never in their hearing. He wasn't far wrong as Auntie Mabel always claimed we had Cherokee blood in our past. Auntie Ruth may have been a might older, but it was the same, for all that. She braided her hair with colorful bits of cloth, the tresses hanging almost to her lap. Ruth went grey very slowly. "See, it's kids that do it to ya," she said one hot September afternoon when it was too hot to stay inside the store. She let a handful of her tresses fall across her face like a graying theater curtain. Cross-eyed, she singled out the grey strands. "I paint them fresh every morning just to remind me." "Really?" My brother, who still believed in Santa and the Easter Bunny, crawled into her lap to examine those hairs closer. "This'n here is Eddie Earl," she said as she singled out a grey hair. "This'n here is my first grey hair. My son, Elbert, give it to me when I was still babyin. He gimme lots and I still gotta paint a new one now and then for El." "Which one is mine?" He asked seriously. That got him hugged and a great peal of laughter from the Aunties. Auntie Ruth had little girl's laugh. Auntie Mabel's cackle was the butt of many jokes from the gathering inside. "You two tryin to lay eggs again?" Uncle Ed called from inside the store. "He's the one," Auntie Mabel said of Uncle Ed. "I turned grey all at once and it's all his fault!" Auntie Mabel once had lovely chestnut hair. Now she wore it in a tight bun pulled severely away from her face. "Time was I had a friend who chased all the grey away," Mabel explained to Dakota, who was still examining Ruth's hair closely. "Really? Where did she go then?" They laughed again but Mabel wasn't quite ready to give it up just yet. "Why her name was Miss Clairol," Mabel told him. "She lived in a bottle." "Oh she didn' neither," Dakota said with his own bashful smile. He was still missin his two front teeth at the time. "I swain, right hand afore God," Mabel lifted her left hand. "She lived in a bottle and came out about four times a year just to make your Auntie Mabel look pretty." She cocked her chin to one side and up, batted her eyes at him, and put her hand behind her head, striking a 'glamour pose'. "Did the bottle break then?" Dakota asked, now taken in. The Aunties laughed aloud again but Dakota, being too young, missed his barb. Mostly the Aunties taught us about life, in their own fashion. They sat in those chairs, day in and day out and inspected every visitor to Ed's store without comment – well, mostly without comment. "That's Daisy Richardson," Mabel hissed to Ruth one afternoon in the late fall as a large woman went in to do her shopping. "No!" Ruth said and turned for another look, but the dust collected in the screen door didn't allow much more than a peek at her silhouette. "What happened to her?" "Kids," Mabel leaned back, assuming an air of deeper insight, "and that no account man she shacked up with so long. She done had eight of his before he disappeared. You remember. 'Twas in all the papers." "But she got so big," Ruth said. "I 'member her in high school as this little bird of a thing." "Still would be, too, I'm guessin'," Mabel said. "But she got the women's problems and swelled up like a balloon. I heard tell she been seein' that herb doctor back up the draw some, but don't look like he's helped much." Another day, another visitor; a man this time, with a funny lurch and almost a hesitation in his walk. He came to the door, tried to peer through the dirty screen and opened it cautiously, like someone was about to scold him for being there. "Rory the simple," Ruth said. "He rode the other bus when I was in school. Nice enough boy but jumped at any loud sound." "What's wrong with him?" Dakota said. "Hold your piece," Ruth scolded. "God done scrambled his brains good when he was born. Ain't no call for you to be remindin him he ain't all there. He knows that already." It was mid October, I remember, when the Aunties became all too human. I remember clearly the pumpkins and corn stalks bunched together in front of Ed's store, along with bushels of acorns we collected. An Indian summer crept up the hollow and made collecting acorns thirsty work. Uncle Ed paid us a dollar a bushel. "They gotta have their caps on now, hear? Them tourists love acorns and'll buy a ton of 'em, but they gotta have their caps on," he said by way of direction. It was easy money. We brought back two heaping bushels, leaving an acorn trail back up the path to out favorite oak. Dakota disappeared inside and I sat on a free spot on the rail, fanning myself, trying to get cool. Auntie Ruth reached into her pocket for her fixins', another ritual, usually in the morning. She carefully laid two thin papers on her lap, took her pouch and lightly sprinkled the fillings, then deftly rolled the whole thing, slipping it into her mouth to seal the paper as a last move. Time was, she let Dakota or I light her smokes. I guess I was just too old for that treat now. I must have been a teenager by then, or very close, because what had always been Auntie Ruth's fixins now took on a whole new meaning. Ruth and Mabel always shared their smokes, explaining to me once that "the cost is too dear to waste." Truth was, Auntie Ruth's 'home grown' consisted of half tobacco and half sensimilla. Shock must have registered on my face. Ruth and Mabel laughed almost as loud as I'd ever heard them. "How the mighty slip from their pedestals, eh Mabel?" Ruth said as she gasped for air. "Would you like some, Janey Sue?" "I would not!" I'd heard the horror stories. I'd seen the burned out husks at my school, generally boys from bad families. It was a few years later, and a child or two, before I enjoyed the Aunties recipe of morning coffee and smoke. About that time, Dakota brought out our Dr. Peppers, filled with peanuts. He settled on a chopping block the same time Ruth farted. It was a gentle thing, would have passed without notice and only slight embarrassment, but Dakota was there and still thrilled with bodily functions, the way young boys can be. With a snort, Dr. Pepper squirted from his nose. "You farted!" He called when he could speak again. "Why Dakota Edward James, I never," Ruth exclaimed indignantly. "If you please, sir, women do not fart." "You did so," Dakota said. "I heard you." "That warn't no fart," Mabel said. "Was, too," Dakota argued. "No it warn't," Mabel said. "That couldn't have been a fart. Ruth didn' go no where or raise up at all. Now this is a fart." With that, she leaned over and passed gas – loudly - to be polite. Dakota howled with laughter. Ruth blushed just a bit, then leaned over and tooted two or three times, only to be answered by Mabel's trombone one note. Our laughter brought Uncle Ed to the door this time, something rare. "She farted," Dakota said as he pointed at Ruth, "then she farted. They been havin' a battle of the farts." "Musical ass holes, huh?" Uncle Ed snorted and returned to his circle. Laughter from inside showed that he'd shared the news. My guess is those old boys inside did their best to match the Aunties, but they had a long, long way to go. Sisters separated by less than two years, in my mind the Aunties were always a staple in my life. I can't remember a day in childhood that passed that I didn't see them. Auntie Mabel went first, so slowly we hardly noticed for a few years. Ruth noticed. "She just missing sometimes," she said one day with a smile as Mabel picked at the front of her flowered dress. "Seems like these streaks get longer and longer where she just sort of takes off in her mind someplace. Wish I knew where that was." Eventually, they had to take Mabel in for a physical. The news was grim, so grim that they couldn't tell Dakota or I. "You just keep a special eye on Mabel when she's around," Uncle Ed said a few days later. "You make sure she don't go wandering off somewhere." "Why would she leave?" Dakota demanded. "Never you mind. Your job is just to make sure she don't go alone." Ruth followed close on, sure enough. Another trip down the mountains, another grim diagnosis. I was in high school by then and nearly at the top of my class. I guessed at first, then did some research. Sure enough, the Aunties had Alzheimer's. Worse, for all they did for me and mine, there wasn't a thing I could do for them but be there, I guess. I had a long talk with Uncle Ed. "I can make it up next year," I said as I offered to stop school and sit with the Aunties. "Really, Uncle Ed, I can go down the junior college over in Macon." "No," Ed said flatly and would brook no further argument. "Look, honey, this could take years and years. The doctor don' know himself how long. You finish that high school and get your scholarship, you hear? We're proud of you and if you quit now, you're going to make a lot of people sad and angry. My sister's will be just fine as long as they remember where their chairs are out front." Although Ruth started later, her degeneration came much quicker. Within a year, whatever there was that made Ruth was missing. It was no longer a joy to see Mabel leading her to her chair. Now, to keep Ruth steady and 'home' Mabel kept her on a kiddie leash. I sat by her, day after day, usually reading a story. Sometimes Ruth demanded the Bible, although she rarely, if ever, attended services that I recall. She did so love the Psalms. Mabel slipped away quietly, but much much further. Ruth seemed to have some deep seated understanding of home and hearth. Mabel wanted to roam, to visit places she'd heard about but never seen. One Saturday when I caught her, she had an old grass suitcase, filled with flowers and two jars of molasses. "Paris," she said when I asked where she was off to. "Are you on the train to Paris, too?" "Why yes, I am," I replied as I took her arm. "Why don't we just sit in the waiting room they have here. It's ever so much nicer than standing out here in the rain." Ruth was given to fits of crying, which usually brought Mabel down as well. Crying over people that she'd never known, men she'd never met, I'm sure. "Oh Cal, Cal," she wept bitterly one day from her bed. "Why did you go Cal? Where did you go? Why didn't you take me with you Cal?" "Not that I know," Uncle Ed said that evening when he stopped by. "She dated lots of guys, true enough, but I don't recall a Cal." It took three years – three very long years – before they were completely missing and unable to communicate at all. Ed followed shortly on, although he's not completely missing just yet. We've put him in a home now. How I wish we had time to sit with him as I did with the Aunties, but life presses on without relief and Ed needs more attention than I can give. According to the nurses, he still gets up every morning at five and dresses for work in his store, going over lists of items and produce he needs to order. He sits in a soft chair near the fireplace and has conversations with friends, mostly long gone now. Still in all, he's sprightly enough for someone in his eighties. Scooter Davis and his brother, Big Al, now run Kendall Grocery. It's still standing, much as it always has, at that sweeping corner of State Route fifty two. Of course, the state has repaved and widened the shoulders some, but the school bus still stops and my kids always meet me there at the end of the day. "I sure do miss 'em," Scooter said one hot August day as we waited for the bus. He and Big Al sat in the Aunties' chairs. "They be missing, sure enough," Big Al said. "When you suppose they comin back?" I had no answer for him. They weren't really missing, not truly. When things get too tense or too heavy, when life just seems too oppressive, one of us farts. Dakota and I still break into uncontrollable laughter when we're together. And it's their fault. |
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| Missing Roger Haller www.cowboylogic.net |
#4 of 10 |
| 1020 words | |
| Gus was the smallest sibling in the brood and he was
born into a world were that was most often fatal. There was nothing wrong with
him but for his diminutive size but he realized early the brood was too much
for one mother to handle and natural selection was already turning her from
him. Preferred access to training, food, grooming and care was given first to the largest ducklings and last to the smallest. This meant there was not much left when it came to him. Nature is not blind however, and when it takes away something it often adds something to a creature’s repertoire to compensate. Gus found his compensation was determination and tenacity. Luckily or by design, his oil glands matured early and he was able to groom and stay water tight in spite of his mother’s lack of attention. Gus developed his lungs and quickly found he dove deeper than even his more buoyant mother. This allowed him the choice bottom dwelling food and his constant practice produced a two foot launch from the water surface to pick of flying food that was out of reach to the bigger ducks. Even though he grew strong and healthy, his size ratio did not improve with his brothers and sisters so his position in the pecking order did not change. His only real connection to the brood was his instinct and one sister who seemed to like his company. Gus enjoyed her company and it filled the void created by his abandonment by the rest of the family. Gus felt he had all he needed. This worked as long as he stayed in relative proximity with the brood to allow his sister to keep her connection, but his independence often drew him away. Only his instinct to flock for safety kept him in contact. It was this independence that had him diving several yards down the pond when his family was attacked on the shore. A fox had found the brood and three were gone before they could reach the relative safety of the water. Among the missing were the two biggest of the brood and his sister. The ruckus created by his brood’s misadventure caused Gus to hurry to their aid. It was then he found the brood smaller than before and his treasured sister one of the missing. Gus headed for shore. Within a few feet he spotted the fox and the remains of his biggest brother, beside the killer was the other brother, not moving. Three feet behind the horror was his sister silently trying to get to her feet. Her left wing hung behind her and blood stained her downy chest.. Catching the Fox’s attention, Gus headed quickly parallel with the pond edge and dropped into a muskrat hole that went down a slope toward the pond. Gus was deposited neatly into the water about three feet below the surface. Under water, Gus swam back to his original path out of the pond and climbed back onto the bank. A quick glance to his right assured him the greedy fox was digging madly in the muskrat burrow and his sister now on her feet was alone. Gus shot to her side with a deceptive speed for a waddle and gently herded her back to the water. Moments later the brood, minus two was swimming toward the far end of the pond with Gus and his sister in tow. Once safe on the other side, Gus’ mother put the run on him and once she noticed his sister’s condition, she weeded her from the brood as well. Gus sadly recognized his mother had decided to focus on the healthy once more. Gus’ sister had joined the ranks of the disowned. Gus tucked his sister under a cut bank where the sod grew over to the water level. She had a safe place to heal with a small opening to a tiny beach, just big enough for two ducklings. This would be where she would heal. Now a pro at finding feed, he dove over and over for the fattest water beetles and bugs and dragged tender sedge shoots to her.. His sister was soon well fed. Two months passed like this, but his sister could never fold her wing back in. She could not fly although Gus had lifted to the skies now for a week and had felt the adrenalin as he sped from pond to pond at speeds up to sixty miles an hour. All the inspiring speed aside, he never spent more than a couple hours away from his crippled sister. More ducks joined the paddling on his home pond and Gus’s sister began to increase her social circle. Soon she had suitors a plenty and her interests strayed from Gus to one of the suitors in particular. Gus was again on his own. Now, with free time, Gus spent more of his time in the air. This is where he found a particularly interesting friend who followed him home. This female made it clear he was no longer single and he didn’t mind in the least. Two more months passed and the urge to fly began to show direction. With a last parting visit with his sister, Gus and his mate flew into a flock and didn’t stop traveling until the air was again warm and wet. Life was good for several months and the urge grew to fly home. Gus and his mate headed back to start a family, but there was no sign of his sister and her mate. They were never seen again, Gus and his mate had good luck with a ten egg brood and he was exiled to the male pond next door until it was time to head south again. His mate rejoined him and a whole family took the trip. Gus had gone full circle and lived happy with an ever growing community. He balanced full fatherhood duties and exile in their turn every year for ten years until one day, Gus simply didn’t wake from his evening sleep in the paddle. Many generations started from the smallest duck failed to notice he was missing. |
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| Missing Carol Kloskowski cklos@jamadots.com |
#5 of 10 |
| 1514 words | |
| For three Sundays in a row Father Mike had made this
appeal during the final announcements after Mass. “We are in need of one
more Faith Formation teacher on Tuesdays after school. Please, if you feel able
to do this, call the rectory.” Chrissie had thought about calling each
time he’d made the announcement. She loved kids, had raised a big family
and worked with children for many years, but she was pretty busy and decided to
let someone else do it. This third time, however, by Father’s desperate
tone she knew no one was stepping up. She made the call sure it was going to be
fun. It wasn’t. Week 4-- Chrissie’s 4th grade faith formation class The boys were bored—all eight of them. Jeff was almost asleep. His arms were cradling his head on the religion workbook open on the table in front of him. Tyler was poking Bobby, the boy next to him, who was doodling something in his workbook. Chrissie wasn’t close enough to see what it was. Jeffery was leaning so far back in his chair she was sure momentarily it would fall over. And finally there was Timmy, the boy making strange noises. (No one had given her any information about his problem) He may have had a severe learning disability or mild autism. He had something that caused him to make noises and prevented him from sitting in his chair for more than a couple minutes. He had no idea what Chrissie was trying to get him and the other boys to understand. Two girls had registered for the class, but they had only come twice. Basketball practice, scheduled at the same time was obviously more important. Something was missing here, something that had also been missing the first three weeks—interest; a desire to learn, and enthusiasm. These kids couldn’t care less about the “Church,” its formal prayers, the brief introduction to some of its saints or almost anything else in their religion workbooks. Whoever wrote the course plan and workbook that went with it obviously had never imagined a class like this. “It’s not naptime, Jeff. Head up, please,” she smiled as his head dutifully came up. “Tyler quit poking Bobby. How would you like it if he started poking you?” With a devil smile Tyler stopped his poking, for the time being at least. The sloucher and the boy doodling in his book got a pass while she got crayons and some paper for Timmy, the boy with the disability, hoping they would occupy him for the rest of the class, but expecting him to lose interest in ten minutes or less. It had been like this since the first class. Rambunctious children were nothing new to Chrissie. Besides raising her own children, she had almost ten years of tutoring all sorts of kids at the local public elementary school. This wasn’t even her first stint as a religious education teacher. She had team taught an 8th grade class three years ago. This religion class was different though. No reports went home; there were no penalties for improper behavior, and no attendance was taken. (Father Mike was just happy that some parents still required their children to come) Combine those facts with a curriculum that, it seemed to her, had been written by someone who knew as much about religious educational material for kids as she knew about quantum physics. Something had to be done, but what? Immediately after class she’d talked to the religious education director who agreed that the curriculum, at least for her class, wasn’t going to work. “You don’t have to stay with the book the whole time,” the director, Linda, had assured her. “Just teach the kids what’s important any way you can. That’s all anyone can ask.” She gave Chrissie a sympathetic smile, patted her hand and walked away. What were the most important things these kids should know about their religion? That night in bed Chrissie lie in the dark thinking about that. The first thing that came to mind was that we are asked to love God above all things and our neighbor as ourselves. That, she thought was the most important thing she should try and get across. Next, she thought they should hear about the whole life of Christ, for sure, along with some of the Old Testament stories, at least enough to see relationship between the Old Testament and Christ in the New Testament. Also, she decided. The children should know the Ten Commandments. They had been mentioned in each of their Journey to Holiness Workbook’s first four lessons, but no one, up to now, knew any of them by heart, except for number 5—Thou shalt not kill. Even Timmy knew that one. Chrissie hoped the children would actually learn the rest. Now that she knew what she wanted to teach, the planning began. She decided that after briefly going over the main points from the Journey to Holiness lessons (ten minutes tops), she would go on to her new agenda. However, in order to teach these fourth graders anything, Chrissie needed to have their attention and hopefully their interest. This part of the plan would take a lot more thought. She didn’t sleep much that night. Week 5-- Chrissie’s 4th grade Faith Formation Class See seven boys all acting silly and running around, instead of sitting at the large rectangular table that served as a communal desk and two girls standing by the door whispering to each other. (No basketball practice today apparently.) Enter Crissie armed with her “.plans.” She set her large canvas bag down on the table and took ten clear plastic cups out of it. They had wooden tongue depressors scotch taped to each of them. On each tongue depressor was written the name of one of Chrissie’s students. Next she took out a bag of large buttons (they’d been untouched in a box with her sewing things for years). The children sat down immediately when she asked them to. Amazing! It was only because they were curious about the cups. They started asking questions immediately. “What are the cups for?” asked Cheyenne,” are we getting something to drink?” “No, Cheyenne,” Chrissie answered, “we’re going to put buttons in them.” “Buttons!!” the whole class echoed. They were wondering if their teacher had gone crazy. “Why, buttons?” everyone wanted to know. Everyone was listening, a good sign already Chrissie thought. “Last week your behavior in class was awful.” She hesitated here waiting for someone to disagree. No one did. After a short silence she continued. “So I have a new plan. Each time I have to tell anyone to be quite, sit up or down, stop fighting or whatever else you’re doing that you shouldn’t be doing I’m going to call your name, tell you what you’re doing wrong, and put a button in the cup with your name on it. At the end of class the person with the fewest buttons will get a treat. In case there are two or more of you tied for the fewest buttons I’ll put their names on papers in a bowl and pick one. That person will get the treat. Besides that, those with the fewest buttons will each get a point for the end of the year reward. It will be something very special—a surprise. To get more points toward the end of the year award you must have homework turned in, win the learning contests or games we play and get everything right on test papers. There were a lot of questions. There was a lot of interest. Interest wasn’t missing now. The first button went into Tyler’s cup. He loved to talk and kept interrupting Chrissie. After she had dropped four more buttons into various cups the room was quiet. All nine of these darling kids were actually paying attention. The class played the Ten Commandment Game. Timmy, who only remembered “Thou shalt not kill” rolled the dice for each of his fellow students (that kept him busy). If the number eleven came up on the dice, that person had to say the first commandment for a point. And so on. If number 12 came up you got a point for free. There was real enthusiasm for this game. Chrissie couldn’t honestly say the children were enthusiastic about the rest of the class but at least they were paying attention. Chrissie’s 6th, 7th and 8th Tuesday after school religion classes have come and gone. Her students now know the Ten Commandments, except for Timmy, but she’s sure he’ll never kill anyone. They’re reading most of the well-known Old Testament stories, about the life of Christ, and talking about the importance of loving God above all things and your neighbor as yourself is being stressed, Now, in the 4th grade Faith Formation Class boredom has departed, knowledge is entering, and enthusiasm for the rewards Chrissie provides prevails. With time and maturity, Chrissie is sure these 4th graders will, eventually, understand the deep, beautiful meanings of Christ’s message. |
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| Missing Salvatore Buttaci buttashar@aol.com |
#6 of 10 |
| 59 words | |
| Tales of the lost: I don’t say them to bring tears to your eyes. There’s more than enough sadness to go around, but these are tales of the missing, the countless would-have-beens, the almost-there heroes, sorrowful mothers, quiet soldiers left behind on bloody battlefields, the absence of rain, those picks and axes in the hands of the hopeless raised high above stooped shoulders, brought down in crushing impact along the fault lines of the heart. |
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| Missing lins.writing@yahoo.com |
#7 of 10 Runner-up |
| 1194 words | |
| “Coming through the door was this great big
rooster,” Daniele said. “I know it was a rooster because it crowed.
It was bigger than Tuffy. I mean that thing stood almost four feet tall. It
marched right through the kitchen. Then it marched down the hall to my bedroom.
I had to follow it to see what it was going to do in my room. It didn’t
seem like a dream either. I know it was real.” “What did you eat before bed?” “Oh Mom, get serious. This giant crowing chicken comes into the house and I’m supposed to tell you what I ate for supper? Anyway, I stood in the doorway so he couldn’t get out of my room. Walking to my dresser, he flew up and started pecking at the stack of clean clothes on top of it. Shirts, shorts, socks flew everywhere. I jumped into the room flapping my arms up and down to distract him, but all it did was get him excited. He furiously beat his wings, screeched and ran around the room in wild-eyed terror then grabbed my locket and flew out the window. What do you think about that, Mom?” “I have no idea. This isn’t a way to get out of cleaning your room, is it?” Mom asked, tapping her foot. “No. I’ll do it after breakfast. It was so weird and it felt real. I did find a feather on the windowsill, too. You don’t think it was real do you?” Daniele said pouting. “Come on, Daniele. You’re ten years old. You know better than that. Some dreams are just that – dreams - nothing more, but they do seem real at the time.” “Fine. I’ll clean my room, but if I find more feathers or, or…droppings, then you’ll believe it was real. I bet I don’t find my locket either.” Daniele stomped out of the room. When she got to the doorway, she peeked around the corner in case he came back. Breathing a sigh of relief, she entered the room. It certainly looked like something ransacked it. Tuffy, her Sheltie, lay across her bed. “Come on Tuffy, help me find more feathers. I know it was real, not a dream.” Tuffy jumped down and started sniffing under the bed. “Is he under there?” Daniele sank down and slowly slid across the rug to the foot of the bed, flipped the blanket up and saw nothing. “False alarm - keep looking.” Picking up the shirts that remained folded, she stuffed them in a drawer. She shoved some socks and shorts in the next drawer. Folding the last shirt from the floor, she noticed a kernel of corn under desk chair. “How could that get in here? Mom, I found some corn in here. I bet the rooster brought it in.” “Right,” she said, walking into the room. She leaned against the wall. “We had corn on the cob last night and you probably tracked it in on your shoe. You’re doing a good job of cleaning up this mess. You should be done by the middle of next week.” “Thanks. I don’t think it’ll take me that long. Do we have any of those scented garbage bags? I think it would help with the barnyard smell in here. Don’t tell me you don’t smell that.” “Don’t get snotty with me, girl. I think what you smell is Tuffy. She ran through the sprinkler this morning and needs a bath. When you finish your room, you can make that your next project,” her mom said, leaving the room. “Thanks again. I used to look forward to Saturdays,” she muttered. Daniele patted Tuffy’s head. It was damp, but she was sure that wasn’t the reason for the smell. She picked up her homework sheets from the desk and put them in her book bag. Now all that remained was the pile of dirty clothes next to the hamper under the window. Gathering it up to cram it in the hamper, she saw something streak across the back yard. “Mom! Look out in the back yard. I think it’s the rooster. I saw something dart into the bushes.” No answer. Daniele raced to the kitchen, but Mom wasn’t there. She wasn’t in the living room either, or her parent’s bedroom. Tuffy seemed wary and followed very close to her heels. “Mom, where are you? Don’t you want to see the rooster? Come on, answer me. This is getting spooky. Where are you?” Still no answer. Daniele slipped out the back door then scooted to the bushes where the thing dashed through. She heard a ruckus from the neighbors’ yard and carefully peered over the hedge. There in the middle of the yard was a rooster, not as big as the one in her house, but a rooster nonetheless. Her mother and father were waving their arms trying to keep it from going into Mr. Hartman’s garage while he and Mrs. Hartman came around the backside of it with a net. Mrs. Hartman jumped up and down as Mr. Hartman swung the net from right to left trying to catch it. On the second swing, he got it. Feathers flew in all directions and the screeching scared Tuffy back into the house. “Mom, I told you there was a rooster in my room last night. I bet he stole my locket too,” Daniele said, clambering through the bushes. “Sorry, honey. You were right; it wasn’t a dream.” Mom admitted, stroking Daniele’s hair and picking out a twig. “We didn’t see any locket, but maybe if you look all around the yard you’ll find it,” said Mrs. Hartman. Daniele searched for over an hour, to no avail. She was sure the rooster ate it or Mrs. Hartman kept it for herself. “Daniele, please give Tuffy her bath and don’t make a mess like you did last time,” Mom said, calling from the kitchen. “May I do it in the tub?” “NO! I don’t want all that dog hair clogging the drain. Do it downstairs.” “Okay, I’ll wear my swimsuit and boots. She usually shakes off and I get wetter than her.” Opening the closet, she noticed something shiny in the corner under her boots. Moving her boots, she saw her locket with the chain stuck under the baseboard. Daniele raced back into the kitchen brandishing the locket. “Mom! Mom, I found my locket. The rooster didn’t eat it after all. It was in the closet under my boots.” “How do you think it got in there?” Mom asked, raising her eyebrows. “I remember putting it in the pocket of my jacket on the way home from school yesterday. The clasp was bent and I was afraid I’d loose it. I forgot all about that happening. I guess I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. It did look like the rooster took something from my dresser and I thought it had to be my locket. Sorry.” “The case of the missing locket is officially closed. Want to help me make a salad? Mr. and Mrs. Hartman invited us for a cook out. They said we’re having grilled chicken,” Mom said, winking. |
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| Missing njswritingnook@yahoo.com |
#8 of 10 |
| 2347 words | |
| Cindy turned the key, then using her hip, pushed open
the door. Her purse slipped off her shoulder, she dropped her coffee and she
gave a yelp. “Oh my God!” She stood there like a nincompoop, just looking. Someone broke into her apartment and ransacked it. Her hand flew to her mouth when she realized that the “someone” could still be in there. She was backing away when she thought of Whiskers, her cat. Forgetting her fear momentarily she yelled, “I don’t care if you are still in here, if you’ve hurt my cat, I’ll - I’ll kill you!” Even with all her bravado, she cautiously stepped into the living room, but didn’t see her cat. Glancing around, she grabbed the angel statue that was on the entertainment stand. Next she crept toward the bedroom, the statue clutched in her upraised hand, looked into the room, but no cat, just a mess. She stepped over some books that were scattered in the hall and slid along the wall toward the kitchen. Where was Whiskers? She surveyed the room then looked up. There on top of the cupboard she saw the tips of two gray ears. “Whiskers! Come baby, come kitty, mama’s home now.” The cat poked its head up further and gave a faint “meow” then stood up, tail lashing. “C’mon baby, mama’s home.” Cindy set the statue down and held up her hands. Whiskers leaped off the cupboard and landed in Cindy’s arms. “Oh Whiskers, what happened? Are you hurt?” Cindy stroked the cat and kissed her over and over again. Then she let her senses take in the whole scene. Her refrigerator stood open, food scattered on the floor. The cupboards were all open and their contents strewn about. Even the microwave was open. What had happened and why? Still hugging the cat, she picked up the phone and hit 911. “9-1-1 emergency, how may I help you?” asked a faceless voice. “I’ve been robbed or something. Someone broke in and my apartment is all torn up. I need help.” “Are you hurt? Is anyone still there?” “No, I don’t think so. I just came home and saw the mess and I don’t know who did this to me and I need someone to come over here and …” “Calm down, ma’am, and let me get some information, ok? I have the address as 2112 Court Street, Apartment 2. Is this correct?” “Yes, yes, that’s my address. Can someone come please? I’m all alone and what if he comes back? What am I supposed to do?” “Just stay calm, ma’am. I’ve contacted the metro police and someone will be there shortly. Are you sure you’re alright?” “A bit shook up, but I’m not hurt. I wasn’t here when it happened. I’m scared though. Who would do this and why?” “I don’t know. But the police will be there to help you work through it. Is anything missing?” “How would I know, the place is such a mess I can’t tell. The major things are still here, my computer, the TV and stuff like that. They just tossed everything and left an awful mess.” “The officers should arrive soon, so don’t touch anything. What is your name, ma’am?” “Cindy, Cindy Perdita. Thank God, I hear sirens, thank you,” she said clicking the off button. Carefully retracing her steps, she noticed the spare bedroom door was closed. She never closed it. Was someone in there? She almost wet her pants when there were three loud raps on the door. She actually jumped and squeezed the cat too hard, but called, “Who’s there?” “Police ma’am.” She checked the peep hole and then opened the door to find two uniformed policemen. “I’m officer Bell and this is officer Hawkins. Are you Cindy Perdita?” Cindy nodded and motioned for them to come in. She put her finger to her mouth as a ‘ssshh’ then whispered, “I don’t know if anyone’s still here but I never close that door,” she said pointing with a shaking hand. “Stay here,” Bell murmured and motioned for the other officer. Guns drawn, he silently turned the knob. It only opened about a foot and stopped. He listened but nothing was moving inside. Giving the door a firm shove, it opened to reveal another room in disarray, plus the window was wide open. The perpetrator’s exit appeared clear. Bell entered and checked out the room, then looked out the window. “It looks like he got away. Call the lab and have them send someone to process the scene,” Bell said to the other officer. “Ms Perdita, have you noticed if anything’s missing?" “No sir, not that I could tell. But then, I haven’t touched anything except the angel statue and the phone. Why would anyone do this? Plus they scared poor Whiskers half to death,” she replied smoothing Whiskers’ face with her finger. Officer Bell gave the cat a rub on the head. “Too bad he can‘t talk.” Then he let himself get back to the business at hand. “As soon as the lab processes the apartment, you’ll be able to clean it up and verify if anything was taken. What time did you get home?” “About 4:45. I left work at 4:00 and came straight home. I didn’t notice anything different when I came to the door. As soon as I opened it, well, you see what I saw. The door was still locked and everything. How did he get in? The window in the spare room?” “Was it open when you left this morning?” “No, I always check the windows before I leave. Have other apartments been vandalized in the neighborhood?” “Not in this building. Is there anyone you can think of who would do this to you? Fight with the boyfriend or something?” He noticed she was a very attractive looking woman. Cindy shook her head. “No. I’ve lived here for over five years and know most of the people in the building, well, at least on this floor. I don’t think any of them would do this. I haven’t had any trouble before. And for your information, I have no boyfriend.” Officer Bell indicated she should sit down and he sat opposite her. He flipped open a small notebook and said, “I just need a little more information. You’ve lived here about five years, never had any trouble with other tenants, and you don’t have a boyfriend. Where do you work Ms Perdita?” When he flipped open his notebook, Cindy couldn‘t help but see there was no ring on his left hand, nor an indication that any had been on his finger. “I, umm, I work at Mercy Pharmaceuticals, in the research lab. I’ve been with them almost ten years.” “You ever bring any of your ‘work’ home with you?” he asked. “Something along the lines of drugs, ma’am? Maybe someone thought you had some here?” “No, no I don’t have any drugs, unless you count aspirin.” “Do you bring any kind of paperwork home? Maybe something containing a formula someone could use to create a new drug?” “I hadn’t thought of that. I think I brought my briefcase home … “ Cindy murmured as she looked around the room. “Well, if you brought it home with you, and you got here after the break in, no one could’ve taken it Ma’am.” “Yes, of course you’re right. It’s just that I was going to arrange the steps necessary to complete this job we’re working on. I have a conference on Monday, and it’s crucial to finish this because I’m presenting it. I can’t believe I forgot it,” she said in a dazed manner. “What was the job? What type of drug are you working on?” “Nothing earth shattering. Really, it’s not even a drug, but an additive to a current drug to help in the absorption process. You know, a way to enhance the way the body uses the drug to block pain to the injured area. I can’t believe I forgot it,” Cindy said again. “It may be a good thing you did. Maybe whoever broke in was still in that room when you got home and was just waiting, and when he didn‘t see the briefcase … ” Bell said. “That means whoever it was knew I’d be bringing my briefcase. Excuse me, please, I must contact my employer to inform them … “ “Hold on. Don’t jump to any conclusions. We don’t know if that’s the reason someone ransacked your home. Plus it may have been someone you work with. Let us do a little investigating first.” “If I don’t contact them, I may be jeopardizing my position. They should know if anyone’s trying to steal our formula.“ “We don’t know that for sure, so please don’t contact them yet. It may turn out to be a random robbery.” Cindy wasn’t totally convinced, but she wanted to co-operate. “If anyone from Mercy is involved, the only ones I can think of would be either Mr. Bayard or Miss Riet.” “What makes you say that?” “They both worked for competitors and they both were involved in this new study. They were screened before they were hired, of course, but they’re the only ones who could possibly profit from this.” Just then the lab technicians arrived and Bell went to talk to them. Cindy found herself watching him and liked what she saw. He had a cute butt. But of course this wasn’t the time nor place to be thinking along those lines. Officer Bell returned and asked, “Do you have someone you can stay with for the night?” “I think I can stay with Malwina, next door. She usually gets home around 6:00 or so.” “It won’t take us that long to process the apartment, but I think it would be prudent for you to spend the night there. We don’t want to take any chances. I’ll report back as soon as I know anything.” “May I get some clothes from my bedroom? And some toiletries? I won’t touch anything else.” “Certainly. Don’t worry about your fingerprints, they’ll be all over the place. After all, this is your home.” Cindy blushed, then stood up. “Ok then, I guess I’ll leave matters in your hands.” * * * * * * The next morning there was a sharp rap on Malwina’s door. After checking the peep hole, she opened the door to a tall, handsome Officer. “Lordy but Cindy was right. You are easy on the eyes. C’mon in officer, I’m Malwina.” Bell removed his hat and said, “Ma’am” tipping his head. “Is Ms Perdita available?” “More available than you think, sir. You jest sit yourself down a spell and I’ll get her. Could I get you a coffee or something?” “No thank you.” Bell had to smile in spite of his training. This Malwina was a feisty old gal. He glanced around the room and was impressed with the art work. Very interesting. Before he could examine the paintings closer, Cindy Perdita came into the room. She wore a pair of cutoff jeans and a blue tank top. Her hair was pulled back, showing her long neck. He cleared his throat and tried to concentrate on the reason for his visit. “Ms Perdita, I think I have some good news.” “Call me Cindy. I truly hope it is good news. Did you catch whoever was responsible? Was it someone from Mercy? Maybe I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” “Yes, well, ah, it seems there was no conspiracy and no one was after any formulas. We lifted some very clean prints and they match someone we’ve been watching. He’s a small time drug dealer and was probably looking for drugs. Evidence showed he pried open the window, entered and ransacked the place, then left by the same window. It’s possible he was still here when you got home, but we can’t be sure. Our data base identified him and I’d like you to look at his picture and tell me if you’ve ever seen him hanging around or if there‘s any reason for his fingerprints to be all over your apartment.” He handed a picture to Cindy, who shook her head. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him around here. Then again, I wasn’t looking for anyone. But he wasn’t obvious if he was around. You know, he wasn’t hanging around looking suspicious or anything. I’m sorry, officer.” “That’s ok, it’s something we have to ask. We’re confident he was merely looking for drugs. He’s hit a few other apartments and they all look about the same. We were surprised at first because he never took anything of value. Just messed things up. I think you can safely return to your own apartment and straighten it up. If you do find anything missing, please give me a call.” He handed Cindy a business card with his name and number. “Thank you. You’ve been very kind. If I notice anything I’ll call right away.” “You take care now, you hear? And if you find something, anything missing, be sure to contact me at that number. Call any time. And if you get scared or spooked, why you can call me then, too. I’m just a phone call away.” “Thank you officer Bell. I’ll remember that.” “Yes, well, I guess I’d better get going. Remember, feel free to call if there’s anything I can do,” Bell said as he was backing toward the door. “Right. Thank you.” He was out in the hall when he stopped and turned towards Cindy. “Say, do I remember correctly that you don’t, umm, you don’t have a boyfriend?” “You remember correctly. I don’t have a boyfriend,” Cindy said with a smile. “Would you like to go out and have a drink sometime?” “Officer Bell, I think I’d like that very much. What’re you doing tonight?” A huge grin covered his face. “I think I’m coming over and taking you out for a drink. How does eight o’clock sound?” “See you at eight Officer Bell.” |
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| Missing Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#9 of 10 |
| 496 words | |
| I never shoulda partnered with ol' Rafe Bradley but now
he was still in prison and I wern't. I'm jist a two-bit hustler but I needed
the dough real bad. Rafe is a mean as a snake and not to be trusted. Still,
like a durn fool, I went on a heist with him. Oh we got them jewels alrighty and hid 'em in an old rickety cabin that no one ever used. That's where I was headed to now in an old beat up Chevvy. We wuz gonna lay low 'til we got a chance to fence 'em but the goldurned newfangled security cameras had got our faces and' afore no time, we wuz in the pokey. The one dusty room in the cabin was perty dark save for the glimmering shadows from a couple a grimy windows. As I stepped in and began crossing the room, from the corner I heered a voice that sent chills down ma backbone. "That you, Rafe?" "Shore is, Henry" "I thought you was still up in Raiford?" " Yep, I shorely wuz. But when I heered you was getting parole, I busted out. I figured you'd come here." "Well we got to split up the loot." "That's perty funny, Henry. Split it up. Cuz when I got here yesterday, the jewels were missin' They wasn't under the floorboard where we hid 'em. I figgered when I went to get the car that day, you moved 'em so you could keep 'em all to yerself." "I just figgered they wouldn't be safe there, Rafe. First place they'd be a lookin'. I thought of a better place. Now we can split 'em 50-50 and go our sep'rate ways." "Wal yew jist fetch 'em boy and then we kin discuss the split." I knowed that split was going to be 100% and if I wanted to be on the right end of that, I'd have to act fast. I could tell by the sound of Rafe's voice about where he was. I quietly drew my pistol from my rear pocket and quickly fired off six shots into the corner. The only sound was of all six of them thudding into wood. I heard shots coming my way and felt bullets ripping into flesh and vital organs. Rafe had been hiding behind a table, expecting that, and his shots were truer, his eyes being adjusted to the dim light. He lit a candle and looked down at his former partner. "You Bastard," wuz my last words as blood bubbled out of my mouth. I gave a glance up at the rafters and that was about it fer me. In my last dreamy state I saw that Rafe didn't miss the significance of that look. "So you hid them up there, yew li'l weasel," Rafe said to himself softly. He pulled the table over, clambered up on it and felt around. There it was, the leather bag! but half rotted away and not a single jewel. "Goddamn magpies!" I died with a smile, knowin' they wuz safe with my Maw. |
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| Missing ron McCandlish marme32@yahoo.com |
#10 of 10 |
| 86 words | |
| You should be asleep now My clock reads 3:00 A.M. Just lit a cigarette Sipped my beer And looked at you again Underneath my desk lamp Snuggled in it's frame Knowing that… how much I smoke How much I sip Things'll never be the same Wish that I could change things Bring back yesterday Would… if I could But there isn't any way Yet then… I have these memories I hope you have some too About a time… however short When every day… every night Was full of me and you Laugh… the whole, wide world will too Except for me Your the one… I'll spend missing Throughout eternity |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club