Linda's Literary Home

Tag: relationships

  • Original Short Story: “Walking down Dark Hallways”

    Image 1:  Dark Hallways Unsplash

    Fiction Alert!
    This story is fiction.
    It does not depict any real person or actual event.

    Introducing Sharm Wilson

    What will happen to Sharm?  Is she doomed?  Where is she going, walking these dark hallways?

    In this bizarre tale, Sharm Wilson takes you on a bizarre journey, a slice of her life.  She speaks her mind but seems to be trying to tell it like it is.  Her off-the-wall language about her off-the-wall experience fosters the questions: What will happen to Sharm?  Is she doomed?  Where is she going, walking these dark hallways?

    The story, like most pieces of fiction that writers write, stems from an incident in my own life, but it is greatly—and I emphasize “greatly”—embellished.  And I am eternally grateful for that.  Now just read the story and see what I mean!

    Walking down Dark Hallways

    Sharm was sleepwalking again.  Oh, forget about it,  I’m Sharm, and I’m not going to pretend again.  I’m going to tell this story as myself.  So if you don’t like it, that’s ok by me.  Just don’t read it.  

    But ask yourself this, would a fakity fake bother to write all those words without some meaning.  Hecky darn, don’t we all yearn for meaning?  I just want to tell a little story here:  so read or don’t.  It’s totally up to you.  I’ll try to keep it as clean as possible.  I never intended for this to happen, but it did, and I wish so much that I could go back and make all the bad stuff go away, but then who don’t?  Right?

    At the Y

    I was walking to my room at the Y, down the dark hallway.  I shoved my key into the lock, opened the door, and went inside.  I was so tired after a full day’s work at the salmon factory.  (Oh please don’t expect me to tell you which salmon factory.  If they knew that someone like me had been working there, they would probably arrest me.)  

    Anyway, I sat down on my bed and began to think about what I should do the rest of the evening.  I decided to light up a joint to get me all relaxed.  I knew pot was not allowed in this fine establishment, so I also lit an incense and a tobacco ciggy and went on with my tokes.  Just as I was getting a good buzz, a knock comes at the door.

    I moved the incense closer to the door, picked up my tobacco ciggy, tried to look as straight—meaning non-stoned—as I could, and then opened the door.

    “Hello, Ms Wilson,” a matronly looking gal addressed me.  “How are you this evening?” 

    “I’m ok,” I managed to spout out and then she laid it on me. “There have been complaints from other residents. Are you smoking marijuana in your room?”  Feeling a little strained, I took a big puff off the ciggy and then announced, “Oh, no!  I’m just smoking my regular Marlboros.  I burn incense when I smoke because I like the smell of sandalwood better than tobacco. Is that a problem, ma’am?”

    “Oh, no!  You’re allowed to smoke in your room, for now.  After September, I’m afraid even smoking cigarettes will not be allowed.  So you might want to find a new residence, if you continue to smoke after September,” she explained, all the while seeming to buy that I was only smoking tobacco and not wacky tobacky.

    “Well, thanks for letting me know.  You know, I’ve been meaning to quit anyway.  So maybe this is just another reason to do that.”  She gave me a knowing look, an understanding look, and left.

    It wasn’t five minutes later that another knock came at my door, and it was the cops, who pushed their way inside, found the four pounds of pot, and arrested me for drug dealing.

    Tarnation, I had never dealt in drugs.   Sometimes I had a lot of pot for personal use.  They could never prove that I was a dealer so they had to let me go.  But by that time, I had no job, no place to live, and so here I was walking down another dark hallway to another room in a dump called the Cozy Inn.

    But I considered myself lucky.  I had my freedom.  I had the opportunity to look for work.  And so when I found a job at the Cozy Dinner, I decided to turn over a new leaf, keep on the straight and narrow (I know that’s a cliché), and keep out of trouble.

    Image 2:  Beelzebub – Occult Encyclopedia 

    Along Came Bruce

    Then Bruce came along.  He was kind of cute, seemed to have lots of dough, and he started telling me stories about Vietnam.  One time he and couple of buddies were captured and taken to a place where they were interrogated. 

    He thought they were going to become POWs, but that night he and the other two guys decided to break out of the little hut they are held in.  They succeeded, made it back to their unit, and lived happily every after—they lived to be discharged from the Army with all their body parts in tact.

    One night Bruce and I had just made out in the back seat of his station wagon down on River Road.  He was a great lover—oh the stories I could make up, I mean tell, about his loving making! But then as we were getting our clothes back on, a big bang came down hard on the top of the car.

    “Get out of there!  You creeps!  Step out of the vehicle!” a voice rang out loud and stern.

    We could see the shape of a very large man, banging on the top of the vehicle, while he seemed to be encircling it, running fast.

    Bruce opened the back hatch and yelled,  “What the hell do you want?  Who are you?” 

    The man suddenly was upon Bruce beating him with a huge flashlight.  He kept beating and beating until Bruce lay a crumbled mass of flesh and bone, unrecognizable.  Then the man spotted me. 

    He grabbed me like I was a sack of flour and headed for his own vehicle, where he dumped me inside on the passenger side and then entered the driver’s side.  

    I was so scared.  I knew this was it.  The day I would leave this world.  The day I would be killed like an insect.  I was shaking but suddenly I became very calm because I knew nothing mattered anymore.  I was dead.  And nothing mattered anymore. 

    What happened next is nothing short of bizarre, miraculous, out of this world,—oh crap, you decide!

    Along Came Gerrod

    “My name is Gerrod Slater,” Bruce’s killer started telling me about himself. “I’ve been looking for that sum-bitch for thirteen years.  He killed my mother and sister while my father was serving in Vietnam.  His name is not Bruce Slater; his name is Anton Norman.  He would have killed you too, I’m damned sure of it.” 

    “How do you know all this?” I asked this new acquaintance.

    “Like I said, I’ve been on his trail for 13 long, goddam years. I need to thank you for slowing him down.  When he started making the moves on you, he kind of slipped.  He stayed in the town a little too long.  And I was able to follow him, check out his history, and then when I saw him on you pretty regular, I was able to catch him.”

    Gerrod started his car and peeled out, leaving Bruce/Anton, leaving the night behind.  The last night I would spend with Bruce.  My mind was a chaos of images:  but maybe I won’t die, but what do I do next?

    Gerrod drove for several miles and then asked me,  “Where do you want to go?” 

    “Oh, I’m staying at the Cozy Inn, next to the Cozy Dinner, where I work,” I said.

    “Yeah, I knew where you worked, wasn’t sure where you stayed, though, but I know Anton lives in Darrtown with his wife and three kids.  Wait, did I say, lives — I mean lived,” chuckled Gerrod.

    “What are you going to do?  How do you plan to get away with murdering Bruce?” I asked Gerrod.  

    “Well, you know, I hadn’t planned that far,” he said. “My only plan for the past 13 years has been to catch him and kill him.  I guess all that planning took up my mind and I have no clue what to do next.”

    “Won’t the cops be coming for you?” I asked.  “If they come for me, what do you want me to tell them?”

    “Look,” he said, giving a look that scared the crap out of me, “I don’t care what you tell anybody.  I don’t care if the cops come for me.  That’s just another story, another day.  You get it.  I reached a goal tonight that nobody can ever take away.  Look, I’m free.  You see, I could kill you too, and by all rights, I should, you are the only person on the planet who can put me at the scene of that scumbag’s death.”

    I Ain’t No Rat

    “Oh, yes, I see your point,” I said, as I started to exist the car.  “I see I’ve asked too many questions.  I hope you have a good life, whatever happens.  Glad I could help you catch Bruce.  Good-bye,” I said as I started to leave.

    “Hey, wait!” Oh, God, he’s finally come to his senses, he’s going to kill me too.

    “What?” I asked.

    “Look, you seem like a nice young lady.  Don’t go messing with the likes of Anton Norman again.   You got your whole life ahead of you.  Make something out of yourself,” advice from a guy who just slaughtered a fellow human being; still it made of lot of sense.

    And Now?

    That all happened five or so years ago.  What have I done since?  I’ve made up my mind to do as little as possible.  All I really want is to live a life that doesn’t have my heart in my throat from time to  time.  Can you dig it?

    I didn’t rat Gerrod out.  Why should I?  Just more crap that I’d have to suffer.  I want to be as far away from law enforcement as possible, unless I’m being assaulted, robbed, or something.  

    But then that’s why I keep a very low profile now—just try to keep my waitress job and small apartment maintained.  Took Gerrod’s advice about getting too close to handsome strangers.

    Haven’t found the perfect answer though, and if you have a suggestion, I’d like to hear it.  

    🕉

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  • Original Short Story: “Lady Susanne of Frawling Manor”

    Image: English Country Manor

    Lady Susanne of Frawling Manor

    Lady Susanne took her tea after Oliver had swept off the veranda.  While sitting in her favorite old Victorian chair, sipping delicately from her favorite old Victorian tea cup . . .

    Fiction Alert!
    This story is fiction.
    It does not depict any real person or actual event.

    The Outset

    “Let my soul smile through my heart and my heart smile through my eyes, that I may scatter rich smiles in sad hearts.”  —Paramahansa Yogananda

    Oliver stood by the zinnias holding an umbrella, hoping the rain did not begin before he had completed his pruning off all browned blooms.  Mrs. Bronsly stepped out of the house, spied Oliver and went back inside to fetch a broom. 

    “Oliver, here, sweep off the veranda!  Lady Susanne will be taking her tea out there momentarily,” barked Mrs. Bronsly.

    “I thought Callie had already broomed off the veranda and the kitchen pantries as well,” retorted Oliver.

    “No, she has not!  Now skip to it.  Time is getting short!” Mrs. Bronsly, the head house matron, was never shy in shouting orders to her whopping team of three:  Oliver, butler and footman, Callie, kitchen maid, and Mrs. Donwell, lady’s maid to Lady Susanne.

    On a Shoestring

    The little household was held together on a shoestring.  But Lady Susanne, last living member of the Frawling earldom, was determined to finish out her days as her ancestors has done.  

    When offered three times more than what her 1500 measly acres were worth, she literally spit and cried, “I’ll never sell my inheritance for a pittance.”  Thus, she pushed on with a pension that somehow still managed to support her acreage and small house staff, if only barely.

    After being ceremoniously dressed in her finest tea frock by Mrs. Donwell, Lady Susanne took her tea after Oliver had swept off the veranda. 

    While sitting in her favorite old Victorian chair, sipping delicately from her favorite old Victorian tea cup, she spied off into the distance a motorcar crossing the bridge onto her estate.  

    Startled at first, she searched her memory:  “Was I expecting guests today?  I do not seem to recall arranging for visitors on this fine afternoon.  Who, on earth, could that be? Likely another relative!  Ha, relative, indeed!”

    Mrs. Bronsly also had seen the motorcar and immediately called for Oliver.  It had been foreordained that Oliver would greet any visitor to the estate. 

    Being the only man on the premises, the other women deemed it right that Oliver should be the first to inspect whoever might be accosting the serenity of Frawling Manor.

    Oliver in Charge

    Oliver stepped out of the front door and approached the vehicle.  Out from the vehicle alighted a very young woman, and it appeared that no one else was accompanying her.

    “Hello there!” said the young woman.  “You must be the butler.  I’m Estelle Frawling, and I’ve come for a visit with my Aunt Susanne.”

    “Oh, really?  I was not aware that anyone had arranged a visit with Lady Susanne for today,” replied Oliver.

    “Well, I didn’t arrange anything.  I’m here from America, and I did an ancestry search and discovered that I am related to the Frawlings of Devonshire.  That’s this place, right?’

    “Yes, ma’am, this is Frawling Manor of Devonshire, but . . . ” replied Oliver.

    “Oh, I’m so sorry if I’ve made a faux pas,” said Estelle.  “I don’t know anything about the ways of the British, and I was just flabbergasted to learn I was related to them.  But, dude, here I am, warts and all.  And I’d really like to see my aunt.  Can you take me to her?”

    “I’ll see what I can do, Miss!  Please wait here!”  As usual, Oliver went into a lather about this development.

    So he sped off to find out what happens next. He had encountered such inquiries before, and they all seemed to end similarly—with a call to the local magistrate.

    Only Lady Susanne could get to the bottom of things, and Oliver suspected she would do so again with dispatch.

    “Mrs. Bronsly, there is a young lady outside who claims that she is Lady Susanne’s cousin or something.  What am I to do with her?” a flustered Oliver sputtered.

    The Usual Relative from America

    “A relative of Lady Susanne?  Oh, well, let her in.  We’ll see how this goes.  As usual, I suppose,”  responded Mrs. Bronsly.

    “Yes, ma’am, right away, ma’am!” said Oliver, speeding off the fetch the new arrival.

    Oliver bounded outside to fetch Estelle, only to find her picking daisies from the front garden.  He was unsure how to approach, but he decided to let drop the impropriety of such a move.

    “Miss Estelle, please do come inside,” said Oliver.

    “Thank you!  Thank you so much!”  responded Estelle.

    Once inside, Mrs. Bronsly welcomed Estelle and asked her to wait in the library while she went to inform Lady Susanne of the guest’s arrival. 

    Estelle entered the library, which was very small, she thought, having been influenced by the libraries she had seen in British films and the TV series Downton Abbey.

    Interestingly Eclectic Library

    Nevertheless, the library was interestingly eclectic, with titles such as Jiggery-Jee’s Eden Valley Stories and Turtle Woman and Other Poems, both American independently published tomes, standing along side such classics as Autobiography of a Yogi, the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and Sonnets from the Portuguese.

    Estelle had never read such works, but she knew of some American published works and recognized that paperbacks were an oddity in these British libraries.

    “My dear, may I welcome you to Frawling Estate Manor,” Lady Susanne announced, making her grand entrance into the library.

    “Oh, hello, Aunt Susanne, I am Estelle Frawling,”  said Estelle.  “It is so good to meet you.  I’ve come from America.  I’ve been researching my ancestry which has led me to you.  I do hope I am not intruding.”

    Tea and Biscuits for the Guest

    “Sit, sit with me a spell, and we shall see how intrusive you have been,”  said Lady Susanne, who rang for Mrs. Bronsly and requested  Callie prepare tea and biscuits for the guest.

    “So, now tell me all about it.  Why you believe us be related?” Lady Susanne cut to the quick.

    “Well, I did a search on my ancestry and that’s what I found.  My mother’s father’s brother had twelve children.  One of those children is you.  That makes you my aunt—actually grandaunt.”

    “Oh, I see.  But there we have slight problem. I have only one sibling, who died in infancy.  I am not one of thirteen.  How would you explain that?” queried Lady Susanne.

    “Easily!  My father’s brother had a number of illegitimate children.  You are the only one who is legitimate.  That’s why you don’t know about the others, but an ancestry search will reveal all that,” returned Estelle.

    “The only difficulty with that is that my father also was an only child.  He had no brother!”  responded Lady Susanne.

    Illegitimacy Galore

    “Again, your father was the only legitimate child of his father.  The brother was illegitimate, that is legally.  I’m not interested in legal shit, I’m interested only in blood!  You are my blood.  Don’t you see that?”  responded Estelle.

    “What I see before me, young lady, is what the Americans call a ‘gold digger’.  You think you can come in here and convince me of a relationship that does not exist in order to acquire some of what you think you might inherit.  Miss Estelle Frawling, if that is your name, I entertain guests like you in abundance.  And I have yet to find one who is even minimally credible.  I know my own ancestry like the back of my hand.  We British estate owners learned very early on the necessity of such knowledge.”

    “But surely you can see that we could be related?” offered Estelle.

    “Sorry, Miss Estelle, I have my entire family tree on file at the Records Office in Devonshire. And that is the only legal, official record for purposes of inheritance.  If you’d care to travel there to inspect it, I’d be happy to accompany you,” responded Lady Susanne.

    “Oh, I see!  Well, I wonder if I can get my money back from the ancestry research company!”  said Estelle, stabbing at one last chance.

    “That you will have to find out for yourself, Miss Estelle,”  said Lady Susanne.

    The tea and biscuits arrived as Estelle Frawling was departing.  Mrs. Bronsly was not surprised; she inquired, “Another grifter?”

    “Yes.  This time we were all descended from illegitimacy.  Americans seem to love illegitimacy nowadays.  It’s the new missing at sea or war.  What will they think of next?”  said Lady Susanne.

    Lady Susanne continued to receive such guests, claiming relationship with her.  She decided that Americans, Albanians, the French, the Italian, and even the Zimbabweans would continue to try to feed off the British Empire, though that Empire had long ceased to exist.

    Lady Susanne did finally sell her estate and to an American, who planned to build a Disney World.  Her life closed with her still wondering what a Disney World was, never condescending to visit one—or even ask about it.

    🕉

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  • Original Short Story: “Merry’s Prom Night”

    Image:  Lisa Schrage in Hello MImage:  Prom Night:Custom Ink

    Merry’s Prom Night

    “I loathed my mother with a furious passion for her incessant buzzing over the trivial details of a stupid, little dance.  I despised the dress of putrid pink, and the asinine dance steps that made no sense, and I could never remember them.“

    Fiction Alert!
    This story is fiction. It does not depict
    any real persons or actual events.

    The Prom of Absolute Perfection

    Rob Morris had annoyed me by asking me to the senior prom.  He was always acting out as the class clown.  But he was still very popular; he was liked by not only the “in-crowd” but was well tolerated by the “jocks,” and he seemed to have the admiration of almost everyone else.  I despised him, but since no one else had asked me to the stupid dance, I gave it some thought.

    It was like on the first day of spring that my mother, Merrywether—yes, that’s my full name too—started needling me, asking me if any young man had asked me to the prom yet.  She literally kept buzzing with ideas for the perfect dress, the perfect hair-do, the perfect make-up, the perfect blah, blah, blah. 

    It made me wanna puke every time she had some perfect piece of crap to talk about.  Every day before school and after school, she would bust into my room and offer me perfect prom advice.  She never failed to mention that her senior prom had been the high point of her entire life; she simply cherished and adored every moment of it.

    My perfect mother had attended her perfect senior year high school prom with the perfect man she would marry, my father—Garland Whitfield, III.  My father did not remember anything about that perfect prom except that it provided the occasion for his first kiss with the perfect girl of his dreams. 

    After being raised by Garland and Merrywether Whitfield, the perfect couple, as their yearbook had labeled them, I was not the perfect daughter.  I was morose, melancholy, moody for most of what I can remember of my childhood.  

    I’m sure I caused my happy, perfect parents untold agony, except for the fact that they were incapable of recognizing agony.  I had two brothers and three sisters.  All I can remember about them is that they were all perfect.

    Every transgression of mine—from skipping school to cussing out teachers to shoplifting—received that same hopeful prediction that that I would grow out of my misbehavior after I met a fine, young man to settle down with, and then start giving them those perfect, beautiful grandchildren.

    So, my parents were perfect; did I mention that?  I was not. But I am telling this story primarily about the prom because it happened.  The prom is the reason I am here today—serving life in prison without the possibility of parole.  

    Well, of course, that is not exactly true.  It’s what I did at the prom that stuffed me into this fine institution.  But I have begun to digress, I guess.  Or jump too far ahead of this tale.

    That Special Kiss

    Okay.  Now, readers, you must be bummed!  No doubt you were waiting for me to report how wonderfully romantic the prom was, how gracious and manly that certain prom date was, and how I fell head over heals in love with that Rob and am now living the good life, after that special kiss that convinced me life was for marrying that special guy and giving your perfect parents perfect, beautiful grandchildren. 

    No, sorry!  That’s not what happened.  This is:

    After much stewing over it, I decided I would go to the prom with that Rob. My mother had made sure I had the perfect dress and that I knew how to dance all the right dances.  Day by day, I grew more and more angry.  

    I loathed everything I was doing.  The dress made me cringe.  The dancing made me want to puke my guts out.  All the blathering bilge about female duty, female honor, female position in the community had dumped me into a deep rotting stupor of blind and utter hatred.  

    I loathed my mother with a furious passion for her incessant buzzing over the trivial details of a stupid, little dance.  I despised the dress of putrid pink, and the asinine dance steps that made no sense, and I could never remember them.

    Every night I had vivid nightmares about marrying that Rob Morris, spawning off a dozen little snot-nosed bratty monsters scampering around the house, all the while my perfect parents gushing and cooing in happiness over all the things that were making me wish I were dead.

    That dreaded day finally arrived, and by God, I was ready for it.  But not in the way my perfect parents, my perfect prom date, my perfect school had thought.  My hatred had exploded in my head so many times I had no idea what I was doing, thinking, or going to do—well, no, not exactly!  

    Control Nuts!

    Before I lay it out for you exactly what I did, I have to say this!  All you gun control nuts can go straight to hell!  I did what I did because of who I was/am, not because I could get my hands on a gun and do it or because my friend’s parents owned a gun to protect their family. 

    If I had not been able to get a hold of a gun, I would have probably driven my car into the prom dance hall and probably have done more damage than I did.  So, go fuck off! for blaming the goddam gun!  blame me! the one who committed the goddam crime!

    Sorry for the spoiler, but here’s what I did:  I stole the revolver from the desk of my friend’s father.  I had often studied with her, and I knew her father kept a gun in his desk drawer.  I guess she just enjoyed knowing that she was sharing a secret with me.  I had no idea I would consider such a theft at the time she showed me the gun.  

    Unbeknownst to me at the time, the image of that weapon lying there in the drawer deeply engraved itself in my mind’s eye, and four years later, I spirited that gun away after my friend and I had studied for our senior year finals.

    My mother had assembled the perfect evening bag, filled with everything the perfect female prom date would need, including my wallet with a few bucks and my identification, perfume, lipstick, compact, and comb.  

    She instructed me that at least twice I should excuse myself to the ladies room and freshen up with those make-up items: she’d always add, “be sure to comb your hair real nice after a few dances.”

    I emptied out all that crap and I tucked the gun away in that evening bag.  Back then they did not check bags when people went into buildings. 

    Popping Off at the Perfect Prom

    “So,  Merry, you look great tonight, could you go for a glass of punch?” my prom date Rob Morris put this inane question to me.

    Image 2: Lisa Schrage in Hello Mary Lou: Prom Night II (1987)  – imdb.com  

    “Hell, no!”  I snapped, pulled out the gun, and popped him in the head. He fell. I stepped over him and moved on to the punch table and popped everyone around it.  People started scurrying for cover.  

    There was much screaming, everyone was screaming—but the music kept blaring, and a couple was still dancing cheek to cheek until I popped them.  

    I stopped, reloaded, and then I started popping anyone in sight.  I felt so calm.  I was starting to feel even calmer.  But the screaming grew louder, the dancers kept on scattering out.  I kept on popping people—here, there, everywhere—until finally I began to hear the sound of sirens.  

    Like kernels of corn staring to pop, cops popped through the door, into the hall, and I popped a couple cops before one cop popped me.  I guess I fell . . . but  I don’t remember anything after that, until I woke up in the hospital, shackled to the bed, restraints on my hands and feet.

    I had killed a total of 81 people: 74 students, 5 teachers, and 2 cops. I did remember popping people with the gun, but at the time I did not recognize who any of them were.  Only later, however, I found out that I did know them all, except for the cops.  

    My perfect parents got me the best public defender they could find, or so I have heard.  And then they vanished from my life—which was certainly okay by me.  I never really knew them, never had any idea what made them tick,  and I never had any desire or reason to find out.

    I avoided the death penalty just in time by a last minute confession.  I had begged that stupid ass lawyer all along to let me confess, but the idiot wanted to claim something was wrong with me: “diminished capacity,” “mental illness causing inability to be responsible,” or some crap to that effect.  

    She just wanted to make a name for herself with a big fancy trial.  All I wanted was what was coming to me.

    Here I Sit, Paying

    Hells bells, I knew I was the only one responsible. I couldn’t blame it on anyone or anything, because I was the one who committed the goddam crime.  I knew exactly what I had done, and I thought I knew exactly why.  

    However, that “why” has become more screwed up confused in my mind as time moves along.  I have been here in federal prison for twelve years.  As I said earlier, I will be here until I die; I have no possibility of parole, unless, of course, some goody-two-shoes shit- for-brains politician smelling a passel of votes takes up the cause of people like me. 

    I have and will continue to have a big bunch of time to think, to ponder, to consider, to wonder, and to try to connect the many unconnected dots in my mind, and just generally to wallow in sorrow.  I do spend a lot time reading.  The prison library has become my best friend.

    I hate what I did.  I hate, loathe, and despise myself for killing all those innocent people.  And for what did I do it?  Because I chafed at trying to live up to the standards of perfect parents?  That’s bullshit! Hell!  Garland and Merrywether were not perfect.  I now give them kudos because they never ever claimed to be perfect. 

    I now know that I just imagined that they thought they were perfect.  Maybe it was because of my own personal failures that I imagined other people thought they were perfect, and  that they thought I was just a screw-up.  I can see now that it’s likely that only I thought I was a screw-up.

    I still don’t know why I committed that crime.  But I do regret what I did—deeply regret it!  And most of the time, I keep thinking that is the one and only thing I have learned in this life:  that I did a bad wrong and I now deeply regret it. I don’t even know what I might be thinking next.  

    I guess it just depends on what I can learn about how to live.  And this might sound odd, even unbelievable, but I really do take some comfort just knowing that I am paying for my god-awful crime spree . . . but then I’ll turn gloomy again, when I realize that my “paying” will never bring back those poor souls that I with so much malice popped at the prom that awful night, that awful prom night.

    Image 3: Woman behind Bars  Kirk Montgomery – Northwest Arkansas Newspapers

  • Original Short Story: “Me & Iris”

    Image 1: Tracing Orphans in Your Ancestry

    Me & Iris

    Her eyes would shine as she told me them stories. That big old grin she had with just one tooth hanging on for dear life as she laughed and giggled made me laugh and giggle right back at her. She was so good at telling about it those sugar cookies and those Sunday dinners, it made my mouth water.

    Fiction Alert!
    This story is fiction.
    It does not depict any real person or actual event.

    A Woods Colt

    I can’t recall how old me and Iris was, I just remember that we was younguns living there with a bunch of other kids. We all seemed happy enough, I guess. We didn’t have much, but didn’t know any better for it. 

    We just never thought in those terms of having stuff or not having it. We just took every day as it come at us. I recall that Iris loved talking about her momma and daddy and how they all lived in a big house together and they was always laughing and loving each other. 

    Iris would tell me about how she would help her momma cook and clean that big house, and how they would bake sugar cookies almost every afternoon. Her neighbor friends would come around to play and she would hand out them cookies saying the Lord loves a happy child or some such. 

    I never took no stock in praying myself, it never did me any good. I prayed hardest when I knew Sister Jean Little Flower of Jesus was going to tan me for something. No matter how hard I prayed, she’d come around that evening and dust me good.

    Anyway, my sweet Iris just loved to tell me about how her momma would tuck her in with a kiss and a hug every night and then a little later her daddy would stick his head in to check on her. She had a cat named Friday, she called it Friday because it was black, that never made much sense to me, but I never said nothing. That cat would curl up in a ball and not move all night as Iris slept, kind of like a watch dog, I guess. 

    Her eyes would just shine as she told me those stories. That big old grin she had with just one tooth hanging on for dear life as she laughed and giggled made me laugh and giggle right back at her. She was so good at telling me about it, my mouth would water just thinking about those sugar cookies and those Sunday dinners. 

    I never said nothing, I just kept my trap shut as she told me them stories. She knew, and I knew, none of it was true. She ain’t never lived nowhere except here at the orphanage. Sister Jean said once, just to be mean, called Iris a woods colt. I didn’t know exactly what it meant back then, but later on I learned the meaning, and I hate Sister Jean for it even to this day. Iris didn’t know neither, but I could tell it cut her deep.

    That Story I Started

    I started to write that story some twenty years ago. Don’t know why I didn’t finish it then. Maybe I just ran out things to say.  Anyway, I think I had big dreams of becoming a writer back then, but then since I just became waitress instead, I didn’t write anymore until now.

    I started taking some classes at the Big Rapids State Community College after I saved up some money.  I also found out that if I had graduated from high school, I could take two years of community college free.  The governor of the state had promised some such program to get elected and it worked and it kept his promise. 

    Not much ever come of my college education.  After the two years, I got a thing called an associates degree which ain’t worth much without the other years getting me bachelors degree, but I never had enough money keep going to school.  So I’m still in the waitress business.

    Back to Iris

    I don’t know why I even bothered to write that stuff about me going to junior college.  All I really wanted to do was finish the story about poor little old Iris.  So here goes.  After we turned 18, we were turned out the orphanage.  Iris was invited to live with a cousin of hers that the orphanage had contacted.  They couldn’t find any of my relatives, so they arranged it so I could live temporarily with Iris and her cousin’s family.

    I could only live there until I found my own place. I was a lucky enough to find a place to work, The Glass House Diner, and it had an empty apartment in the back of it.  So I got the job at the diner and a place to live.

    Iris and me stayed friends, and she’d come stay with me at my apartment when she got tired of her cousin.  I tried to get Iris a job at the diner but for some reason the manager kept putting off hiring her.  She finally got a job at the Buy-Rite supermarket as a cashier.

    We were both doing ok for two ignorant little orphan girls.  We’d eat at the other diner in town, the Made-Rite. And we’d get to talking about the orphanage and then we’d talk about the future.  Iris got it in her head that she’d like to get married and have kids that didn’t have to live in an orphanage.

    “LuAnn, a new guy started working at the store yesterday, and he’s a real dreamboat.  I think I’ll marry him,” Iris popped out with this bombshell one day.

    “Have you even talked to him yet?” I asked Iris.

    “Yeah, he’s from somewhere up north, and he’s taking some classes at Big Rapids.  After that he’s going to Alabama State U.  He’s going to major in business.  He wants to own his own grocery store in a few years,” explained Iris.

    “So, y’all been on a date yet?”  I asked, getting rather nosey.

    “No, but I think he’s going to ask me soon,” said Iris.

    To make a long story short, much to my shock, it happened Iris and that guy, Willie Martin, did start going out and they got engaged.  So not to make the story too much shorter, I’ll tell you a little about the engagement.

    The Engagement

    Willie gave Iris a ring, took her home to his parents, the whole nine yards.  She was out of her mind happy.  Willie’s folks were what to Iris and me would be consider filthy rich, and turns out they were none to happy that Willie wanted to marry an ignorant little orphan girl.

    Iris went on planning the wedding, even though Willie kept telling her they would have to elope.  Willie told Iris his parents would disown him if he married Iris.  But she kept up the charade as long as she could, acting like they were going to have big beautiful wedding.

    Then all hell broke loose!  Iris came into the diner as I was serving a family its Sunday dinner.  She had been crying and she said she had to talk to me.  She sat by the door waiting for me to get a break.

    “Willie dumped me, LuAnn!”  she stuck out her hand and said, “See, he took back the ring and everything.  He took back all the gifts he gave me, the stereo, the charm bracelet, the electric coffee pot.  He said he really loved me but he couldn’t be poor and if his parents disowned him he’d be poor. LuAnn, I think I’m going to die.  I love him so much.  I can’t live without him.”

    “Iris, of course, you can live without him.   You lived without him until you met him, didn’t you?”  I said to Iris.

    Iris just looked stunned, didn’t say anything, and my break was over.  So I told her to come to my apartment after work so we could talk some more about this.  She said she would.

    Ten Years Ago:  The Philosophy of “Something Better”

    Can you believe it?  Iris’ engagement was ten years ago.  For some reason I didn’t finish the story back then, and I just ran across this story, and thought hey, there’s not that much to tell to finish this story.  So I might as will finish it.

    Anyway, I told Iris that day after I finished work that because Willie was dumping her just meant somebody better was coming along for her.  I had a funny way of thinking that not most folks would cotton to.  But I thought that way.  It had always happened to me like that.  I lost a kitten once, and then found two kittens.  I lost a set of earrings once, and then saw a better pair in the jewelry store window, and the store owner gave them to me because she liked the way I kept her coffee warm at the diner.

    I had a boyfriend once a little while after I started to diner waitressing job, and I didn’t really like having a boyfriend and was stewing over how to break up with him.  But I didn’t have to break up with him; he moved to Florida to be with his kids.  Funny thing is, he asked me to go with him, but I said I just couldn’t leave my job and I didn’t care much for Florida.

    Even how I ended up being an orphan shows that this “something better” deal works.  My parents were drug dealers and even though I don’t remember it, Sister Mary Grace had told me about how I came to live at the orphanage.  And it was because my parents had put me in danger, yeah, they were arrested, charged with child endangerment, and they went to prison and I went to St. Bartholomew’s Home for Abandoned Children.

    I keep thinking I should look them up, but then I’m a little afraid them being ex-cons and all they might not take too well if I showed up for a visit.  Anyway, that’s why I always think that when you lose something, it’s because something better is coming along.  It always worked for me, and I made Iris believe that it would work for her.

    And it did.  After Iris was dumped by Willie, she found out that she had an aunt and uncle living up north, and they were looking for her.  OK, to shorten the story again.  After Iris and her aunt and uncle united, they helped her get into the University of Alabama.  She majored in Spanish and became teacher at big high school in Montgomery.  She met another Spanish teacher and they got married and lived happily ever after.

    Well, that sounds little too much like a fairy tale ending but it’s close to the truth.  Since I lived not far from where Iris lived and taught, we’ve stayed friends and we talk about every day.  I went to her wedding which was the big beautiful one she had always dreamed of.  She had three kids and they turned out to be great kids in every way.

    My waitressing turned me into a business woman and even though I never finished any business degree, I did end up part owner of several diners in my little town and Montgomery.  I have not married yet, and likely never will.  I just like being alone, thinking about stuff, and now writing about stuff.  

    If I never end up being a writer that’s ok.  Because I know I have been a good worker in the hospitality industry and I have been a good friend to Iris.  We were just two little ignorant orphan girls who made it good.  Iris is living a fairy tale life, and I’m happy with mine, and will stay that way until something better comes along.