tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29805867229201627612024-02-07T13:31:24.303-08:00My Silly Stories & Literary LoreA collection of my writings, mostly fiction in nature, including the occassional poem. Pull up a chair and get comfy. I hope you enjoy your read.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-49787006850847007472011-07-07T20:14:00.000-07:002011-07-07T20:18:43.143-07:00Egg<div>We had to write an impromptu Haiku during our writing class tonight. As a general rule a Haiku is 3 lines. The first line is 5 syllables, the 2nd line 7 syllables, and the 3rd line 5 syllables. Typically, lines 2 or 3 will hold an element of surprise or a twist in them. Also, more often than not in traditional Japanese or Buddhist Haiku form, a Haiku is centered around nature. Here is what I came up with today... </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">Egg<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Wind blows, time is here</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mama bird strains and pushes</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Spits; she eats her babe.</p></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span">COPYRIGHT 2011. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-66165349559887902612011-06-24T17:37:00.000-07:002011-06-29T20:47:09.251-07:00Confession<div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Julissa Forney sat in the rocker watching her grandmother in the bed next to her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was odd to see the once active, now frail woman buried beneath the white Battenberg lace quilt; her shallow breaths revealing the last threads of her life.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It seemed like only yesterday Margaret Forney had received the news that Cancer had taken over her body.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Julissa took comfort in the warmth of light cast through the window pane.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As she rocked back and forth she thought about how her grandmother’s death would truly close a chapter in her life.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Margaret was the last of Julissa’s family and the imminent parting overwhelmed her at times.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If it wasn’t for her engagement to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Warren</st1:place></st1:city>’s deputy sheriff, Sawyer St. James, Julissa would be alone.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Hospice moved Margaret home from the hospital earlier that week and the doctor explained that she would mostly sleep and may only be responsive at times.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Julissa wanted to savor every <st1:personname st="on">mom</st1:personname>ent she could.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She had put everything else on hold to spend these last days with the woman who raised her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“How is she doing?” Sawyer asked as he entered the room.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“The same,” Julissa replied.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I’ve been swabbing her mouth with ice chips every so often and she wakes for a few minutes here and there.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“You should eat,” Sawyer said, setting some take-out boxes on the night stand next to her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Julissa wasn’t sure if it was the smell of the food or the sound of Sawyer’s voice that roused Margaret from her sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Jules-“ Margaret began, clearing her throat.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Julissa set down her food and moved over to the bed, lacing her fingers through her grandmother’s.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“I’m here,” she reassured her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“My Bible—“<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Margaret tried again to speak, however her voice cracked a bit before trailing off.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Thinking that Margaret wanted her to read to her from the Bible, Julissa got up and retrieved the tattered book from the dresser.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Upon returning to her bedside, Margaret placed her hand over Julissa’s, stopping her from thumbing through the pages.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She pulled the old Bible onto her lap and opened the front cover.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Inside was a sealed envelope bearing Julissa’s name.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Her hands shook as she passed the letter to her granddaughter.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then, as if that feat took all of her might, Margaret closed her eyes and began to rest again. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Clearing the boxes of food, Sawyer and Julissa made their way to the kitchen, allowing Margaret to rest for a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Across the table from each other, Sawyer sat quietly as Julissa pulled several pages from the envelope and began to read aloud.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She never could have guessed what she was about to discover.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Dear Julissa,<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>As I near the end of my days it occurs to me that you deserve to learn the truth about the past.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My worst fear is that you will be blamed for my wrong-doings and I do not wish that upon you, especially now that you’re engaged to a member of law enforcement.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Wrong doings?” Julissa asked out loud, glancing at Sawyer with a puzzled look.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Law Enforcement?” Sawyer replied before giggling.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“What?” Julissa asked in confusion.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Well, it’s just that it’s only the Sheriff and me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I mean, <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Warren</st1:place></st1:city> is a small town.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I wouldn’t exactly refer to a two-man team as “enforcement”,” he reasoned.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Sawyer,” Julissa sighed, shaking her head only slightly amused at his sometimes boyish behavior.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Sorry.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Continue,” Sawyer apologized.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I thank God that the numbering of my days has been made known to me so that I may take the opportunity to write out my confession.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The guilt of this has torn me up for years.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Yet it was also the driving force of that guilt that kept me going, enabling you to turn into the beautiful woman you have become.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I should first explain that your grandfather, the Reverend Henry Forney was not always a compassionate man.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Yes, he was the pastor at the church.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And yes, he was passionate about his beliefs. But Henry was also a firm believer in “spare the rod, spoil the child.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Unfortunately, I was not always spared that rod either.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I don’t mean to speak ill of your grandfather, Julissa.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After all, he was a man of God.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But you have to understand, times were different then.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Women weren’t to speak out of turn.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I did not mourn at his funeral.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I cried, all right. But they were tears of relief.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I felt then as I do now that Henry’s heart attack was an answer to prayer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Of course, I never admitted that to anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Who would believe that the honored Reverend Forney was anything but gentle?<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Julissa was shocked to read the words scrawled by her grandmother’s own hand.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She had only ever heard wonderful stories of her grandfather and how much service he gave to the town of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Warren</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She had always revered the Forney name because of his legacy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Her heart suddenly went out to her grandmother, for all of the unspeakable things she must have endured.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Julissa read on.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Hank Jr., your father, was barely a teenager when he lost his <st1:personname st="on">dad</st1:personname>dy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My hope was that his escape from the lashings of a self-righteous man would finally afford him the opportunity of a normal youth.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sadly, however, it was too late.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Hank learned by his father’s example that the patriarch of the home always has the last word and that men were superior to women.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am ashamed to admit that even I was afraid to speak out against my own son, especially once he grew bigger than me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It became worse when he started drinking right after high school.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was no secret in town that if there was any trouble, Hank Jr. was usually involved.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Most people just looked the other way, feeling sorry for him; blaming his father’s death for his juvenile delinquency.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The passing of the Reverend gave Hank Jr. a free pass to do as he pleased.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>It came as no surprise to me when Hank got Kathleen, still in high school, pregnant.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I suppose if there was anyone who gave a care about her, they may have brought some sort of charge against him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>However your sweet mama was merely a child abandoned to foster care.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I took her in.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Looking back it probably wasn’t the smartest thing I had ever done, but I convinced Hank Jr. that marrying your mama was the proper thing to do.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I guess I was worried about keeping up appearances.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I can’t help but feel what he did to her was partly my fault.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Is she taking the blame for your mother’s murder?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sawyer asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I would imagine,” Julissa began.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Growing up I heard the story a hundred times.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My father had gotten himself drunk one night after losing his job at the plant.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He and my mother had an argument and in his drunken rage he strangled her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The sheriff believed he jumped off the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">East</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Fork</st1:placename> </st1:place><st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Bridge </st1:placetype></st1:place>out of guilt, although his body was never found.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s a story that’s continued to live on in spite of her death.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Sawyer nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I remember when I first moved to <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Warren</st1:city></st1:place> and asked the sheriff about the pretty girl who worked at the library.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I admit, I found it a bit odd when he replied<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">, Oh that’s Julissa.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Her father killed her mother when she was just a baby.</i><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As if somehow that defined you.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Well, this isn’t <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Houston</st1:place></st1:city>,” Julissa said, referring to Sawyer’s hometown.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“When we have a scandalous headline we hang on to it for years.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I remember, every so often, whispers would surface about me at school.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I knew what they were saying, but I never felt bad about it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I didn’t ever know my parents, so it was just some story to me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Besides, I had a loving grandmother and she gave me the happiest childhood I could have ever hoped for.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Julissa became a bit teary-eyed thinking of her grandmother, slowly dying in the upstairs bedroom.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Wiping her tears from her eyes, Julissa once again returned to reading the letter.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Your mama was the sweetest, shiest girl I knew.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As I’ve told you before, she was beautiful; had the fair skin of a porcelain doll.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You actually take after her quite a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She was a gem and deserved to be treated like one.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She loved you so much too.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She held you and rocked you and sang to you.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’ll never forget her lovely voice.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She also protected you. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As soon as you began to cry, your mama would rush to your side to comfort you.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She never said as much, but I knew what she was thinking, for the same thoughts had crossed my mind too.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When Hank came home drunk, nothing more would set him off than the sound of your cries.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Kathleen feared what he was capable of if she didn’t keep you settled down.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>News of the local power plant lay-offs spread like wild fire.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When your daddy didn’t come home for supper I knew he was down at the tavern drowning himself in his sorrows.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>One look at Kathleen’s face told me she knew the same to be true.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I don’t know what time it was when he finally came home, but it was after midnight when I heard the yelling.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Kathleen was begging him to get off of her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Thinking there was an intruder, I reached in the side drawer for the Reverend’s pistol and ran down the hallway to the bedroom to find your daddy on top of your mama, choking the life right out of her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I pleaded for him to stop and even tried to pull him off of her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But he was strong and his arm came at me fast, in spite of his drunken state.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You were in the crib nearby and began to cry.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I knew he had to be stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I know what the Bible says about killing a man.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But I also knew this cycle had to end.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As he returned to Kathleen, raising his fist, I put 2 bullets in the back of his head.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But it was too late.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Your mother was no longer breathing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">I don’t know how I managed, except to say that my adrenaline pumped fire through my veins.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I pulled the sheets off the bed and wrapped them around his body before dragging him down to the basement.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I removed all of the meat from the ice chest and somehow managed to lift your father’s body into the freezer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I threw the gun in there as well and locked the freezer with a padlock.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I then returned to the bedroom and cleaned up the blood as best I could and moved the area rug over the stain on the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I rocked you back to sleep and then, I called the police.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I told them what had happened, for the most part, replacing the part about the murder with a story that Hank had run off.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>You were just a baby, instantly orphaned.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If I confessed and went to jail, I feared you’d end up in the system just like your mother.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">I wanted only the best for you, Julissa.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Although is hasn’t worked in years, tell Sawyer the freezer is still in the basement, in the back corner behind stacks of boxes, and Hank’s body is still inside.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The key to the padlock is in the jewelry box on my dresser.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">I know what I did was wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I know that when I die I will have to answer to my maker and His judgment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’ve made peace about that in my mind already.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What I want more desperately than anything else is to know that you forgive me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I love you and have always loved you with every fiber of my being.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Please, Julissa.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Please forgive me.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><o:p> </o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Sawyer and Julissa sat in silence for a few minutes before either one finding words to speak.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“So, what do we do now?” Julissa asked.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Certainly you wouldn’t arrest my grandmother on her deathbed, right?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Sawyer reached across the table, gently placing his hand over hers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Your grandmother was acting in self-defense and was trying to protect you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Yes,” Julissa said, holding back the tears.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Your grandmother was a wonderful role model to you,” Sawyer continued.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Yes,” Julissa confirmed again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Your grandmother raised you to be a beautiful, smart woman who’s been able to accomplish many things because of her encouragement and support.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Yes,” Julissa nodded.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Sawyer then took the sheets of paper from Julissa’s hands, folded them back up and returned them to the envelope.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Your grandmother deserves a proper burial.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She deserves to be remembered for the kind, loving woman she was.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Yes,” Julissa agreed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Listen to me,” Sawyer said, bringing Julissa’s chin up to meet his gaze.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“This letter was not found.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In fact, it won’t be found until after your grandmother’s funeral.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Understood?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Julissa smiled through her tears.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Yes.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Julissa climbed the stairs to the bedroom and returned the letter to the front of the Bible, placing it once again on the dresser.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Standing in the presence of the greatest woman she’d ever come to know, Julissa soaked in the light wishing time could stand still for a brief moment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Silently acknowledging the suffering Margaret had likely endured for many years, Julissa couldn’t even begin to imagine the amount of courage and strength it took for her grandmother to do what she had to do.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It gave new meaning to the sentiment she’d been taught repeatedly growing up, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">You can do hard things</i>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Julissa made her way over to the bed and sat next her grandmother.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Lightly caressing the top of Margaret’s clasped hands Julissa was overcome with emotion and began weeping uncontrollably.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Margaret reached her fingers up and laced them through the young woman’s and Julissa noticed her eyes were also moist.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There were so many things Julissa wanted to say to her grandmother; so many questions she wanted answered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Yet, she couldn’t seem to find the words.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Their eyes held each other in a gaze that seemed to suggest a deep love and understanding of one another.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Thank you,” Julissa finally said.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Margaret smiled and sighed quietly before closing her eyes for the last time. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><o:p> </o:p></p></div><div><br /></div>COPYRIGHT 2011. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-42163989357339093562011-06-14T23:22:00.000-07:002013-08-01T01:03:13.975-07:00I Remember<div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I was listening to my first vinyl on the stereo my mom bought from the garage sale down the street. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Nine</span> years old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lying on my bed, mindlessly counting the embossed flowers crowding my papered walls, lost in clichés advocating that somehow, like the sun, love could chase the rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Conversion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the sun digging deep beneath my skin. Triple digit temperatures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Solace breathed in the shade beneath the big Maple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was sticky, but carefree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Raising a blade of grass from my thumbs to my lips, I tried to mimic the songbirds above.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blue Jays engaging in banter of high-pitched cheeping and chirping.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Love birds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>my shelves were full of every fairy tale known to man. Boy Meets Girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put myself in the place of the pretty one, dreaming of that magical moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boy Falls in Love with Girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Malevolence and wickedness, disenchanted by do-gooders and justice, conquered by the prince on the white horse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boy Marries Girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was continually mesmerized by, and even counted on, the predictability of good over evil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Happily Ever After.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Sunday. His so-called passion, a cover-up for the scars that would surface long after he was gone. Apparently, crying 'Uncle' isn't an option when you're "on duty" (the ink barely dry on the contract mounted beneath the glass). The communistic commitment pierced my corneas - a siren of the reality.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The show must go on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>empty pledges, prompting me to be still for just a little longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> His eyes</span> told the lies of the lines that were set and I knew then I became the harlot. No breathing. Suffer in silence. These were the rules, the impetus, promoting resentment in love’s place. Strings attached, tangling, choking, suffocating.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Intermission.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>breaking the lock to an old chest tucked beneath corners of cobwebs. My shoes marked with creases of my “once upon a time”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Still a perfect fit and d</span>ouble-knotted for good measure. No more shadows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Embrace the exception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shedding the coat adorned with badges of scorn, I would refuse right-of-way to roads of the past and a future of not knowing the end from the beginning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Baptism by fire.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I remember.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
COPYRIGHT 2011. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-22745405944114976402011-05-03T20:07:00.001-07:002011-11-11T08:52:44.362-08:00Fathers<div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I try not to ogle women when my daughter’s around,” I overheard my father say to his pal Tommy Dimigglio. “Unless of course we’re at a fight and it’s two of my favorite female wrestlers,” he laughed. In fact that was the last thing I ever heard him say. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">My father, Mickey Capparelli, had a gambling problem. He was also a womanizer who drank too much and never paid his child support on time. It was the combination of the former that led to the latter. He used to tell me that going to fights together was our “thing”. It didn’t matter which weekend I went to spend with him, we went to a fight. Truth be told, there was always a fight somewhere and he always had a bet riding on it. That particular Sunday he went to the men’s room and never came back. Police later concluded he was jumped and killed by one of his bookies. It was the only time I saw Tommy cry. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">True, my father had problems but he was still my father and I loved him. Even though it meant spending time at the arena at least I got to see my dad, and as a ten year-old that was enough. I can’t explain it, because I never begrudged him for his vices. But somehow, the life of my father played a big part in my career to become a homicide detective for the city of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Boston</st1:city></st1:place>. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“What do we got here?” I asked as I entered the house on <st1:address st="on"><st1:street st="on">Salina Street</st1:street></st1:address>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Sergeant Knox motioned for me to follow him. “Seventy-two year-old white female. Name’s Rita Wagoner. Found at the bottom of the stairs by her step-daughter Sandra Collins.” I followed Knox through the kitchen to the basement stairwell. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Where’s the step-daughter now?” I questioned.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Dining room,” Sergeant Knox replied. “Officers are getting a statement.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I walked down the narrow staircase to the body lying on the cement floor below and was greeted by my long-time friend and colleague Lana Gertsch. Lana had been the chief medical examiner long before I became the Supervisor for the Homicide Unit. I didn’t need to work with anyone else to know that she was the best.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What’s it look like Lana?” I asked. “Cut and dry fall down the stairs?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Or a push,” Lana began with a questionable tone in her voice. “She’s got a huge bump on the back of her head,” Lana continued. “But there’s also skin under her nails –“</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Which indicates a struggle,” I finished. “All right. See what you can find out once you open her up and let’s get a skin sample to the lab for DNA testing. I’m going to talk to the step-daughter and see if she knows anything.” Knox and I headed back up the stairs letting the coroner’s office prepare the body for transport back to the morgue.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Miss Collins?” I asked the seemingly distraught woman sitting at the dining table.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yes,” she sniffled. “Please, call me Sandra.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m sorry to hear about your step-mother,” I started. “Were you two close?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Not until recently,” she answered, wiping her nose with the tissue in her hand.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“How long were she and your father married?” I proceeded.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Just a few years ago,” she replied between tears.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“And he’s passed?” I presumed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yes,” Sandra said. “About six months ago.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m sorry to hear that. Can you tell me what happened tonight?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well, I came up from <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Miami</st1:city></st1:place> for a visit. I rang the doorbell and knocked several times. When there was no answer, I let myself in with the spare key under the mat and found her at the bottom of the stairs.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Did she know you were coming?” I asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sandra nodded. “Yes. But my flight was delayed so it was much later than I had planned.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What time did you arrive?” I questioned.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Just after 9 pm,” she answered. “If only I had been here sooner–“ Her voice trailed off and once again the tears started to flow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Don’t blame yourself,” I reassured her. “I don’t know that you could have stopped whoever did this.” To that Sandra’s expression changed. She took a minute to gather her thoughts before speaking again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What do you mean ‘whoever did this’?” she asked in disbelief. “I assumed she had a heart attack or stroke or slipped or something and fell down the stairs.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Although we won’t know the cause of death until the autopsy, we have reason to believe there was foul play.” Sandra nodded, taking in the information I was presenting her. “Do you know if she was expecting anyone else?” I asked. “A friend, a maid, a neighbor perhaps?” Sandra shook her head before blowing her nose into her tissue again. I couldn’t put my finger on it just yet, but something seemed a bit off with her. “How long will you be in town?” I questioned.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I was supposed to spend the week with her. We were going to finalize my father’s estate.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“And you’re staying…?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“At the Courtside Inn over on Broadway,” Sandra replied. As she left I handed her my card and told her to call me if she needed anything else.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Check this out,” Knox motioned for me from across the room. “The paramedics told the officers that when they arrived the basement was dark.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What do you mean?” I asked. “Like whomever did this turned out the lights before leaving?” Knox led me back over to the top of the basement stairs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s pretty dark down there,” Knox pointed out, turning off the light switch for effect. “If Sandra had been looking for her, wouldn’t she have had to turn on a light?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You’re thinking she didn’t need to turn them on because she already knew the victim was down there,” I guessed. “I was thinking something seemed off about her as well. She told me she wasn’t really close to the victim until recently and yet she cried as if she had just lost her own mother.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“So you think it’s either all an act or they’ve recently had a ‘Come to Jesus’ reunion,” Knox interpreted, practically reading my thoughts.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“And look at these photographs,” I said, directing his attention to the wall in the living room. “Sandra’s in none of them.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“So?” Knox answered.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well look,” I pointed to one picture in particular. “It’s our vic with her husband and a younger man. A son maybe?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yeah, you’re right,” Knox realized. “He’s in all of these ones too.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Right,” I confirmed. “But she’s in none of them.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well she did say she wasn’t close to the victim until recently,” Knox pointed out. “It’s possible she was estranged from her father and only came into the victim’s life <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">after</i> he passed.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Time to find out what happened between Miss Collins and her daddy and what exactly it was that reunited her and the victim.” Turning to leave I added, “Have the uniforms check with the airlines. See if there was a delayed flight from <st1:city st="on">Miami</st1:city> to <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Boston</st1:city></st1:place> and see if she was on it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Knowing that Lana would have the autopsy done by morning, I stopped by the morgue before heading into the station the next day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“She has a skull fracture and the brain is severely swollen,” Lana said leading me to the table where the victim was lying. “There’s a bruise on the back of her head, right around the hat rim area on her right posterior aspect. This is where the impact occurred. But over here on the front left, is a contusion and an acute subdural hematoma. Definitely not natural causes. This woman died from blunt head trauma.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“And the skin under the nails?” I asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I told the lab to push it and we should have the results in about seventy-two hours,” Lana replied.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Back at the station Knox and I started putting our case together. The uniforms had confirmed that not only was there one delay, but due to thunderstorms in Miami, nearly all flights the prior evening had been delayed. Police still needed the judge’s signature to get flight manifests. While waiting for those pieces of the puzzle to come together, Knox and I figured it was time to start taking the pieces of Sandra Collins apart.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Do you realize how many Sandra or S. Collins there are in the <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Miami</st1:city></st1:place> area?” Knox asked later that afternoon pouring over the computer data base.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Keep checking,” I encouraged. “I sent the uniforms back to the house to see if there’s a name on the back of the photographs. If he is a son, we need to find out what he knows about Sandra.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Knox nodded and rubbed his eyes a bit. The poor guy looked like he could use a break. But he didn’t ask and I didn’t offer. That’s how we worked cases. We worked them backwards, forwards and inside out, figuring something’s got to give at some point.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Capparelli,” one of the uniforms called to me entering the station.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“What’s up?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“There were only two flights from Miami that landed around 9 pm, and Sandra Collins wasn’t on either,” the officer explained.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Check earlier flights and check Ft. Lauderdale if you have to,” I directed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">The officer put a stack of manifests down on the desk in front of me. “Did that,” he replied. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">“And?” I pushed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“There was an earlier flight that landed around 7:30pm. On it were two different passengers with the last name Collins,” he explained with a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. “A Mr. Scott Collins and a Ms. Heather S. Collins.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Husband and wife?” I asked. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Not from what we can tell,” he explained. “Mr. Scott Collins had a middle seat in the back of coach and Ms. Heather S. Collins was in first class.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Well an arrival of 7:30pm would have given the killer plenty of time before dispatch took the 9pm call,” I responded. “Let’s look into this Heather and see if by chance her middle name is Sandra.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">As I was mapping out the case on the white board, Knox took a quick phone call and then joined me. “That was Officer Burke,” he stated. “You’ll never believe what the name on the back of the photographs say.” He was beaming at me like a kid in a candy store just waiting for the go-ahead to make a purchase.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“What?” I questioned.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scott</i>,” he stated while waiting for my reaction.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Hmm,” I replied trying not to get too excited. “What are the odds that the son was on his way to visit our vic the same time as the daughter?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I don’t know, but it’s certainly a bit too coincidental,” Knox replied.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Well there are a lot of Scott Collins,” I stated. “See what you can find out about that passenger.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Shouldn’t we ask Sandra what she can tell us about her brother?” Knox asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Not yet,” I replied wanting to get my proverbial ducks in a row first. “But, get some uniforms outside of her hotel. I want her under surveillance 24/7 in case Scott decides to make a visit.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">In this case, as typical with any other, it seemed like a lot of “hurry up and wait”. It was common to get bits and piece of new information all at once and then go for a period of time with nothing. It was during the periods of waiting that seemed to make the day drag on.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Well first of all, it turns out only one room is registered to the name S. Collins,” Knox reported a few hours later. “And secondly, Heather S. Collins is not our same Sandra Collins. Heather <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sylvia</i> Collins lives here in the Boston area with her husband and two children. She was returning home after visiting her parents down in Boca Raton. Because of the weather, her flight out of Ft. Lauderdale was cancelled and she was moved to the Miami flight.” Knox explained. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“So, either Sandra knows that Scott is in town and they are sharing a room, or one of them has checked in under an alias,” I surmised.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I added the new information to the board and continued wondering how all of this was connected. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If Scott the son was the same as Scott the passenger and he arrived at Rita Wagoner’s house prior to the arrival of Sandra Collins, then he may indeed be our killer</i>, I thought to myself.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Unlike instant events that unfold in the movies or on television dramas, the information I needed was held up by court orders and lab results. It was another two days before I could retrieve anything new. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Well, Sandra isn’t your killer,” Lana told me over the phone. “The DNA under Rita Wagoner’s finer nails belongs to a Caucasian man, not a woman.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Almost as if he could read my mind, Knox appeared with the latest report on Scott Collins. “It appears our passenger purchased his tickets through a discount website and get this,” he started. “He also booked a hotel room at the Courtside Inn. Should we send the uniforms?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Not yet,” trying to put the pieces together in my mind. “Maybe Sandra and Scott were in this together. Either way, we’ll need the judge to authorize us to swab Scott for DNA testing. And if he is the killer, the chances he’ll do it voluntarily are slim. I don’t want to alarm him that we know anything just yet. But find out what room he’s in and alert the uniforms to keep an eye out for him too.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">As I lay in bed that night, I tossed and turned trying to figure out the details of the case I had so far. I kept asking myself why a brother and sister would both come in to see their deceased father’s wife and what a possible motive for killing her would be. And furthermore, if Sandra knew her brother was in town, why would she not have mentioned it? There were only two possibilities; either she was covering for him or she had no idea he was there. Knowing that Sandra had been estranged from her father, I remembered the old saying that nothing tears a family apart faster than money. I decided to check the probate court in the morning to see if Sandra’s father left a will.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Yes, I remember that file,” attorney Robert K. Jones stated as I sat in his office the next morning. The elderly couple came into my office a little over six months ago and seemed in a bit of a hurry to get their wills changed. I remember, because he died just a few weeks later. Talk about timing,” the gruff attorney stated.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Why did they want to change their wills?” I asked from across the big oak desk.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Well, they wanted to remove Mr. Collins’ son from the will,” Mr. Jones stated.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Why did they want to do that?” I questioned.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Now those matters I never ask,” answered Mr. Jones. “But I do know that he kept saying he was dis-owning his son because he was nothing but a disgrace to the family name.” Taking the new information I decided to see if Knox had found out on Scott Collins yet. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I used the credit card information from the airline purchase and finally found a match after pouring through every Scott Collins in Florida,” Knox said, setting a stack of papers down on my desk. “He lives alone and works for a call center in Miami. Here are his financials,” Knox continued as he thumbed through the paperwork. “The only thing that really stands out is that about four months ago he paid a ton of money to stay at the Baltic Hotel right there in Miami.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“The Baltic Hotel?” I asked, wondering why that sounded familiar to me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Yes,” answered Knox. “I thought that sounded a bit odd myself. I mean, why would you spend ten days in an upscale hotel just a few miles from where you live?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Suddenly, it hit me like a ton of bricks. “Call the uniforms. See if they still have Sandra Collins under surveillance at the Courtside Inn.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“What? Why?” Knox asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Because,” I answered grabbing the paperwork and my purse. “He is really a she.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"> “Wait,” Knox called as I started heading towards the elevator. “Where are you going?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I need to get a warrant,” I called over my shoulder. “We’ve got an arrest to make.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">It was only a few hours later when I got to read Sandra Collins her rights and the uniforms were putting her in back of their squad car. She had confessed to everything on the spot. When Scott came out of the closet to his father just over six months ago, the father became upset, disowning him and removing him from the will. But Scott, not aware of the change, scheduled his gender reassignment surgery shortly after his father’s death, expecting to pay for it with his inheritance. Later, when Sandra learned she would not be receiving a dime, she came to Boston to try to renegotiate with Rita. They argued and struggled and Sandra pushed her down the stairs.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“But how did you figure all of that out?” Knox asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“It was the hotel,” I answered. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“The hotel?” Knox questioned.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“The Baltic is where a lot of celebrities go to get plastic surgery,” I explained. “The waiting list is a lot shorter than in Hollywood.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“And you know this…how?” Knox teased.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I chuckled. “Hey, I watch the news,” I responded. “Seriously though, it just suddenly made sense. The DNA report revealed the skin under Rita’s fingernails belonged to a man. There was only one Collins checked into the hotel, and we never did confirm that a Sandra Collins was on any flight. The manifests showed only a Scott Collins. Florida’s DMV database did not contain any Sandra Collins that matched our suspect either; only a Scott Collins in Miami.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"> “Well, I still don’t see how you made it all come full circle,” Knox said scratching his head.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Once I realized that Scott had been at the Baltic for surgery it made sense that Sandra was the killer. You can’t legally change your sex on your birth certificate until six months after surgery, which explains why her credit cards, driver’s license and airline tickets were all in the name of Scott. I am sure working at a call center does not bring in the sort of income that she needed to fulfill her medical expenses and I’m sure that learning her father has disowned her had really upset her. Sandra was desperate and desperate people do desperate things, especially when it comes to love or money.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I guess she hoped that her new identity would throw us off,” Knox added.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Well I guess she didn’t realize that even though you can change the way you look, you can’t change your birth DNA.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“You’re brilliant,” Knox praised while shaking his head.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Just like Knox, some people have called what I do a gift. But I never really felt that way. To me, it’s more about watching, listening, learning and trying to identify with the case. That’s all I really did with this particular case.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I remember when I went to fights with my dad. I never really said much, on account he was always really into the match and I didn’t want to disrupt him. But I learned a lot by just watching him. I never cared that we were there at the arena. I never cared that he didn’t talk much to me. He was my father and I wanted his love and affection so bad I would take anything I could get. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I am sure that Sandra felt the same about her own father who had went so far as to disown her. I guess all a girl ever really wants is to be loved by her father.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div></div><div><br />
</div>COPYRIGHT 2011. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-57389576908866243722011-04-26T01:42:00.000-07:002011-04-26T08:53:21.031-07:00The Trial<div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>“Can you tell the court the first time you remember Mr. Tate coming to your home?” Mr. Dupre asked me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">That was the day I sat on the witness stand in the county courthouse outside of my hometown of French Lick, Indiana.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was the summer of 1964 and I was nearly twelve years old.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That summer should have been a summer like any other.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I should have been enjoying it like all of the other kids.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But it wasn’t and I didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No, that was the summer Delmar Tate was killed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">I remember the first day Mr. Tate came to our home all right.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He was selling vacuums door to door.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mama was on the phone and motioned for my older sister, Harmony to brush off whoever it was that came knocking.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I didn’t like Mr. Tate the moment I saw him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He was tall and lanky, wore a cheap wool suit and his dark hair was slicked back with so much grease he smelled like a walking drug store.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“Well ain’t you cute as a sack of puppies,” Mr. Tate said, gazing at Harmony’s bosom a bit too eagerly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Is your mama home, sweetheart?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Upon hearing a man’s voice Mama decided to take front and center as she always did with the men.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Why hello there Miss,” Mr. Tate spoke as he ogled Mama too.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I was just asking your little sister here if your Mama was home.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I ain’t never heard nobody lay on the charm so thick it done gagged me from across the room.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Of course my mama was flattered and invited Mr. Tate in.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As she sat on the sofa pretending to be interested in his presentation on how this vacuum sweeper could change her life, my mama, the great Trista-Lynn Lawrence did what she did best.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She came on to Mr. Delmar Tate and he seemed to take all too kindly to her advances.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was only a matter of days before Mr. Tate became a regular guest for supper, and not long after that he moved in.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“And Sunny,” Mr. Dupre started with his next question.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Your mama appointed Mr. Tate to watch over you and your sister while she went to work.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Isn’t that right?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I ain’t never had the occasion to deal with any lawyer before that summer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But Mr. Dupre was the kindest man I ever met.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">Each night after supper my mama would go down to the tavern and work until midnight or so.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The tavern was packed on account of the shift workers from the rail yard next door.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Although my mama left us home with Delmar Tate, we didn’t need him watching over us.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Harmony was sixteen that summer and besides that, we had been tending ourselves at night for as long as I could recall.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Harmony was the one that cleaned the house, helped me with my homework, and made sure I brushed my teeth and said my prayers before bed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Harmony was more like a mother to me than my own Mama was.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Next to Boudreaux Brown, whom everybody called Beau, she was my closest friend.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">Beau Brown lived with his Meemaw down by the river behind the woods.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I loved him since the first day in Miss Lucy’s Kindergarten class.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At recess some of the other boys were making fun of me on account of my stuttering. “S-S-Sunny can’t s-s-speak!” they called out, taunting me until I began to cry.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was then that Beau hauled off and kicked the biggest one, Bobby Perkins, right where the sun don’t shine.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I ain’t never seen a boy cry so hard in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“Can you tell the court about Mr. Tate’s behavior while your mama was away at work?” Mr. Dupre continued in the stuffy courtroom that day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In my mind, while sitting on that witness stand, I used to pretend that my Daddy was a lot like Mr. Dupre.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Though I never had the pleasure of meeting my Daddy, thinking him in the likes of Mr. Dupre somehow helped to fill that empty space in my chest.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If only my Daddy hadn’t been killed in the war like Mama said, then maybe none of this ain’t ever happened. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">As it turned out, and to nobody’s surprise but Mama and him, Mr. Tate wasn’t a very good salesman.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Night after night he’d come home, put out that he still had the same number of vacuums he left with that morning.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mr. Tate was the kind of man to take to the bottle when he was in a foul mood.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Problem was, he was nearly always in a foul mood and the drinking only made things worse.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>On Mama’s nights off she’d drink with him until they both passed out; but not before bickering and hollering at each other. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mama got real mean when she got drunk.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I remember one night she told Harmony to quit dressing like a slut or she’d end up barefoot and pregnant before she was even eighteen.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Truth be told, that was Mama’s life.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She was the one who slept with nearly every boy in town back in her day and she was the one who got pregnant with Harmony and never finished high school.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Harmony cried herself to sleep that night even though I done told her that it was just on account Mama was jealous and drunk. Harmony was going to make something of herself.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She worked real hard in school to get good grades and saved money by bagging groceries at the Five and Dime.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She was fixing to go college one day and prayed every night to God, asking Him to help her find a way to get as far away from French Lick as possible.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“Sunny,” Mr. Dupre continued with his questioning.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Can you tell the court what happened the night of June thirtieth?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mr. Dupre knew I didn’t like to talk about that night. I practiced saying it over and over in his office beforehand on account I didn’t want to stutter on the stand.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I could tell by the look on his face he didn’t like Mr. Tate neither.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But I agreed to tell it because Mr. Dupre said it would be real helpful to Harmony.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Besides, I loved my sister and wanted to do right by her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">It was a Tuesday night.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Harmony and I put on our pajamas and were fixing to watch “A Man from U.N.C.L.E.”, like we did every Tuesday night.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mama had already left for her shift at the tavern and Delmar Tate was passed out drunk in the recliner. Just as our show was finishing up Mr. Tate stirred a bit and mumbled for Harmony to fetch him another beer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Problem was, he done drank all of the beer and when Harmony told him such he became irate.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mr. Tate began hollering and cussing, calling her a liar; saying that she was hiding it from him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Harmony told him she ain’t hiding nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mr. Tate didn’t take too kindly to her back-talk and told her he was going to whip her hind end.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mr. Tate then told me if I knew what was good for me I’d be getting myself to bed right quick.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I didn’t want to leave Harmony, but I knew by the look on her face she wanted me to go to my room, so I did.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But I couldn’t sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I could hear Delmar Tate’s belt slap against Harmony’s bare thighs.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I held the pillow tight over my face to block out Harmony’s yelps and to silence my own tears.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I started praying to God that He’d somehow make Mama come home early.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I just thought if Mama saw what he was doing she’d get rid of him once and for all. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I told God I wanted a new daddy, so long as he was nothing like Delmar Tate.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I so badly wanted to run to Harmony, to help her and protect her. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Funny thing was, when Harmony came into the bedroom a few minutes later she crawled into bed with me to comfort me and stop me from crying.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Shh.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s gonna be alright,” she whispered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Don’t cry for me, baby girl.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">I don’t recall how long it took for me to fall asleep or at what point Harmony got into her own bed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But I do remember it was late when the bedroom door opened slowly, allowing the light from the hallway to peek in.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>While pretending to still be asleep, I glanced from beneath the covers and saw the figure of Delmar Tate standing in my bedroom. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He didn’t say a word, but I watched as he put himself underneath the covers with Harmony and as he climbed on top of her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I watched as he covered her mouth with his hand to keep her quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I saw her eyes open wide, like a frightened deer in the woods and I watched the tears roll down her cheek.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My heart leapt into my throat and I wanted to scream; but I was frozen.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was as if time stood still and I was just a mere bystander to a horrific sight.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Harmony and I never talked about what I saw, but I was pretty sure she knew that I knew what that man had done to her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">I remember that day on the witness stand as clear as a bell.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mr. Dupre continued to ask the questions, while my mama continued to look at me with disappointment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My palms grew sweaty and I could feel the warmth of discomfort rise up the back of my neck.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He asked me to go on and tell the jury what happened the following Saturday, on July fourth. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">July fourth was a huge deal in French Lick.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The whole town would gather for a day of festivities.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Everyone would bring their blankets and picnic baskets to the park in the center of town.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There were games and entertainment for folks of all ages.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There was even a live band and dancing in the gazebo.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As far back as I could remember, we’d always attend the party to visit with friends and neighbors until the big fireworks show.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That Fourth of July was no different, but Harmony and I sure were.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">Harmony barely spoke two words since the incident with Delmar Tate just a few nights before.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mama kept asking her if she was sick and Harmony kept telling her it was just her time of the month.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I think she was hoping her excuse would be reason enough for Mr. Tate to keep his distance, at least until she could figure something out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“Come on,” begged Beau.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I want to show you something!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As soon as I arrived at the picnic, Beau was ready to go off exploring as we often did.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We ran back into the woods behind the church and found our favorite log down by the stream.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was there he pulled his latest prize from his knapsack.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“Another BB gun?” I asked, teasingly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“Not just any old BB gun,” Beau said in defense.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“This is a Crosman V-300 Spring Air BB Pistol!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You would’ve thought it was Christmas or something the way Beau was going on about it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After several minutes of chasing squirrels with his new toy we stopped to rest against an old tree stump.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I didn’t realize I had been kicking at the same rock in the dirt over and over until Beau cleared his throat.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was true I was never much one for talking, on account of my stuttering.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But with Beau I could, and most days would talk his ear off. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“What’s wrong with you today?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>he finally asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“Ain’t nothing,” I mumbled.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“Sunny,” Beau said looking me straight in the eye.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Don’t lie to me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You’re my girl,” he reasoned.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I can tell when something ain’t right.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">By then I couldn’t keep it in any longer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I hadn’t told a soul about the unspeakable things I’d seen and it was festering deep inside me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Without warning, the tears started to flow and I couldn’t hardly catch my breath, I was crying so hard.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Beau didn’t know what the trouble was, but he knew enough to keep still until I could get a hold of myself.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When I told him what that man did to my sister, I saw the same look in Beau’s eyes that I’d seen the day he kicked Bobby Perkins in the groin. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was a look that told me he was sad and outraged at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“What about you?” Beau asked, softening his voice. “Has he touched you?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I could tell that was a question Beau didn’t want to ask and yet knew he had to.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“He ain’t bothered me,” I answered, keeping my head down.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“Here,” Beau said handing me his newest possession.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Take this.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“What for?” I asked, pushing his hand away from me. “I ain’t gonna shoot him,” I said.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“It’s a BB gun, Sunny,” Beau contended.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“It ain’t gonna kill nobody.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s just to scare him off if he tries to touch you.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Beau convinced me to take the pistol and hide it under my pillow.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Just as he was stubborn, he was as sweet as could be. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For the rest of the afternoon ‘til dusk we just sat at that stump with my head against his shoulder, neither one of us making a peep.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Beau always seemed to know the right thing to say and the time when saying nothing at all was everything I needed to hear.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">After the bursts of rockets and oohing and ahhing from the crowd Mama rounded up Harmony and me and we headed home with Mr. Tate.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The day wore me out and both Harmony and I were fixing to go to bed soon when Mama and Mr. Tate started in on one of their arguments.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Luckily for us, it didn’t take long for the both of them to pass out. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I waited until Harmony was in the bathroom brushing her teeth before I slipped Beau’s BB gun underneath my pillow.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As I said my prayers that night, I asked God for a favor.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I told Him about the awful things Mr. Tate had done to Harmony.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I told Him to watch over us and to please keep that man away from us.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I told God I missed my daddy, and at that very moment a peace came over me and I knew that Daddy was there; an angel watching over me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">It was all too familiar when sometime in the middle of the night, the hinges on my bedroom door began to squeak and the light from the hallway crept in.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My heart began to pound as I saw Mr. Tate quietly raise the covers and slide himself in next to Harmony.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I couldn’t believe he was attempting such a thing when Mama was right in the next room.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I knew I had to do something.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I knew I needed to stop him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I could hear Harmony’s whimpers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As strong as she was and as much as I needed her, she needed me more in that moment than she ever had before.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">My throat was dry, my tongue felt heavy and my body started to tremble.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I knew it was now or never.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ignoring the dizzy spell that done come over me, I slowly sat up and with every bit of strength I could muster yelled as loudly as I could, “Stop! Get off of her!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Those were my words, all right.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But it sounded like someone else’s voice.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">Harmony broke into hysterics, crying and screaming.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Mama!” I hollered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mr. Tate yelled for the both of us to shut up.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mama came rushing in.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Never mind the fact that Mr. Tate was trying to do up his trousers as fast as he could and Mama caught him red-handed. Mama shoved him out of the way and slapped Harmony across the face, yelling at her and calling her names; blaming her for supposedly making advances towards Mr. Tate.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There was a wild look in her eyes as she wrapped her fingers around Harmony’s neck and began shaking her. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I yelled for her to stop, but there was no stopping my mama.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">I felt my fingers slide around the cold metal beneath the pillow. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I stood, with the gun pointed directly at my Mama, hoping to scare her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But before I could say a word, Mr. Tate came at me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And just as easily as I had pulled that trigger at nearly a dozen or so squirrels earlier that day, I pulled the trigger and shot Mr. Delmar Tate.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“And did you suspect that when you pulled the trigger, you would in fact kill Mr. Tate?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mr. Dupre asked me in court.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I didn’t know much about guns.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But I told him what I’ve told many others that day since.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“No sir,” I answered on the witness stand.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“It’s a BB gun.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It ain’t supposed to kill people.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I just wanted to make them stop.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“And did you in fact, make them stop?” questioned Mr. Dupre.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">“Not soon enough,” I replied with all honesty, my voice breaking just a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">Once Mr. Tate fell to the ground, Mama released her hold on Harmony and ran to his side.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I don’t remember much else about what happened after that.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But I do remember Harmony laying there like a ragdoll, not moving, not breathing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">Mr. Dupre said the state would not bring charges against me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I was old enough to hear the rumors.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I was old enough to read the papers. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They were calling Mr. Tate’s death a freak accident.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Apparently, because he was shot at close range, the BB went through the skin and tore a key artery, causing him to bleed to death.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">Mr. Dupre made it so I could stay with Meemaw during my mama’s trial for the death of my sister.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He was as kind to Meemaw and Beau as he was to me. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He came over nearly every night for supper until the trial was over.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He said he wanted to make sure I was okay, since he reckoned it would be hard to testify against my own mama.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But I think he needed Meemaw and Beau as much as I did on account he was a single man with no family of his own.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">The jury found Mama guilty and she was sentenced to life in prison. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As for me, there were never any charges brought, just as Mr. Dupre had promised.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I continued to live with Meemaw and Beau and Mr. Dupre continued to come over every night for supper.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In fact, it was Mr. Dupre who walked me down the aisle when I married Beau just six years later. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">It’s hard to believe nearly fifty years have passed since that summer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’ve often wondered what could make a mother discard her own children.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And yet, what compels others to love someone else’s children as their own?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"></span>I know they say it was a freak accident.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But to me, it was the Good Lord, Almighty making it so Mr. Tate couldn’t hurt nobody no more, making it so I could have a loving family and a father like Mr. Dupre, and making it so Harmony could get as far away from French Lick as possible.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:normal">I ain’t ever pretended to know the mysteries of God, so I don't know why Harmony had to die for her to get away. But I heard Meemaw once say, “When God takes away something good, he replaces it with something great.”</p></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>COPYRIGHT 2011. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-51369304448902234102011-04-19T00:53:00.000-07:002011-04-25T23:38:50.529-07:00Eventide<div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">[Charlie]</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"></b>Charlie opened his eyes, not sure where he was or how he even got there. The bright light stung him for a brief moment before the sky broadened his view.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Charlie had never seen such a vivid blue sky in his life; not that he could remember anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As he braced his hands down by his sides to sit up, he noticed how plush the grass felt between his fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He looked at the ground around him and just as the sky was blue, the grass was bright green.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Charlie couldn’t explain it, but all of a sudden his heart felt like singing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:2"> </span>“Daddy!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A voice called out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Charlie looked in the direction of the voice and began to laugh and weep at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was Johnny, his little boy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Charlie jumped up and ran towards him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Johnny! Oh, Johnny!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>he cried.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It seemed like ages since Johnny had chased his ball into the street and been struck by that truck.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Charlie couldn’t help from giggling as Johnny ran right into his arms.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The two began laughing and playing together and Johnny showed him all of the beautiful things of this enchanted new place.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">[Sarah]</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"></b>Sarah sat beside the bed, grasping her husband’s hand, sobbing, praying that he would be okay.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Charlie had just come out surgery lasting several hours, during which time he had slipped into a coma.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The doctors explained this was common, especially in cases of head trauma such as Charlie’s.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>While some patients only remained in a coma several days, others lasted for several weeks, and the rarest for months.</p><p class="MsoNormal">“All we can do is wait and see,” the surgeon told her.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Sarah’s prayers were laced with tears, thanking God for reuniting her with Charlie while at the same time pleading for his recovery.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Her heart went out to the other families who had lost loved ones just three days prior, when two airliners led by terrorists crashed into the World Trade Center. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The tragic events of September 11<sup>th</sup>, 2001 would be a day Sarah knew would live forever in the hearts of the American people.</p><p class="MsoNormal">For two full days following the attacks, Sarah sat surrounded by friends and family before finally hearing from rescuers that Charlie’s body had been pulled from the wreckage.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Initially she had only been told that he was in transport to St. Vincent’s and she should meet them there.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She had no idea of his condition until she arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She learned from one of the paramedics that he was one of only sixteen people found alive.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sarah knew she couldn’t discount that miracle, but she desperately wanted her husband back.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">[Charlie]<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Charlie didn’t need to verbalize his worries for Johnny to understand.</p><p class="MsoNormal">“I think Mama really wants you to come home,” Johnny said to his father.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Looking into his eyes, Charlie knew his son was right.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But how could he leave Johnny now that he finally had him back?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Won’t you please try, Daddy?” Johnny begged, squeezing his father’s hand.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Charlie agreed as he walked over to the giant oak tree at the end of the hill.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Johnny told him it was the way.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>With a tear in his eye, he turned back to take one last look at Johnny.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He didn’t need to hear the words.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He knew his son loved him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><o:p> </o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">[Sarah]<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Each minute passed turning hours into days until an entire week had elapsed. It seemed the sands of time stood still and the miracle Sarah had been praying for finally arrived.</p><p class="MsoNormal">“Nurse!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Come quick! Nurse!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sarah cried.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Doctors and nurses came rushing in when they learned Charlie had opened his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>All were hushed, except for Sarah who began to ramble through her tears.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Charlie, oh Charlie!” she cried.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I thought we had lost you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>However, Charlie didn’t respond. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He simply stared blankly at Sarah in return.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“What’s wrong with him?” she asked the doctor.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Can’t he hear me?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Well it’s hard to say,” the doctor replied while checking Charlie’s posturing and reflexes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Coma patients normally don’t regain consciousness very quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In fact, during the first few days they are usually awake for only minutes at a time.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Some will come completely out of their coma while others progress to a vegetative state.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We won’t know the chances of his recovery until we are able to run some more tests.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But ultimately, time is the telling factor.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">[Charlie]<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></b>As Charlie rounded the corner from the oak tree the wind began to pick up, chilling the air just a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As he walked further away from Johnny and the hill he noticed the colors around him muting and the echoes of laughter fading in the breeze until only the sounds of silence encircled him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The light grew dim and the darkness began to swirl around him, engulfing him, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">choking </i>him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Charlie grew faint and weary as the earth began to spin.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He felt his knees give way as he clutched the ground beneath him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Tears of anguish poured from his soul as he begged for the light to return.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Deep breaths</i>, he told himself trying to calm down. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Charlie mentally retraced his steps to figure out where he had gone wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He went the way Johnny had said, hadn’t he? <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Perhaps he was trying too hard and didn’t see the signs.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Perhaps he was simply trying to run faster than he had strength. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Soon the pounding in Charlie’s head subsided and his chest began to rise and fall like the ebb and flow of an evening tide.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As Charlie lay on the ground an ever so slight twinkle appeared in the darkness of the sky and Charlie’s nose was filled with a familiar fragrance.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>It was Sarah.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He knew it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She was near, but he couldn’t see her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He heard a stream rushing by and could hear the current carrying her sadness.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Charlie wanted the light to return so badly, not just for him but for Sarah too.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He tried to call out to her, to speak to her, to let her know that everything would be okay.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But those desires seemed liked bottled up wishes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His tongue was bound and he knew not why.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Charlie tried to breathe Sarah in, to somehow hold onto her scent.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As he continued taking deep breaths he reflected on all of the things he would tell her if she were lying down next to him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As he closed his eyes he could almost see her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He closed them tighter out of fear she would fade from his mind.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Don’t worry about me</i>, he would tell her if only she could hear him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">I’m safe. I’m okay. It’s beautiful here and I’m happy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m with Johnny again and he loves you.</i><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He knew that if he could tell her those things she would be happy too.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">My sweet Sarah</i>, he would call her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">When you pray, know that our loss is only time.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It is only time until I can hold you again.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Until then</i>… Charlie’s own tears seemed to wash over his entire body.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He now knew the way to go and the song in his heart returned. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">[Sarah]<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Sarah found comfort in the rhythms of Charlie’s heart monitor. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For the moment it was all she had.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sleep had been a stranger for several days now and Sarah was weak and weary.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Threads of family and friends came to the hospital to offer their love and support.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In everything they said the one thing she heard most was how they admired her strength.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But deep down, she didn’t feel strong. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Deep down she was crumbling, breaking, and she knew it.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Sarah had been watching the news, the aftermath of the attacks and the numerous tear-stained faces that came across the screen as survivors held up pictures still hoping to find any sign of their loved ones.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sarah knew she wasn’t like them.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sarah knew that for whatever reason she had been given something they didn’t have.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And yet, she felt selfish for wanting more.</p><p class="MsoNormal">The doctors had told Sarah it was uncertain as to whether a coma patient could hear, think or feel.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sarah couldn’t help but believe that if Charlie had any awareness of his current condition it would be torture for him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Charlie was never one to sit by and be idle.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His idea of relaxing was finding something to do.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Charlie was the light of her life and the life of their marriage. She remembered what it was like burying Johnny and how, if it weren’t for Charlie she would have collapsed. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">He</i> was the strong one.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sarah reached over to the bed by her side and laced her fingers through Charlie’s.</p><p class="MsoNormal">“I’m not going to ask you to stay anymore,” Sarah said out loud just in case Charlie could hear her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“It’s not fair to you and I’m not strong enough to endure another day of what-ifs.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sarah’s voiced cracked and the tears flowed freely.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Go home to Johnny and take care of him until I can come too.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Until then…”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">[Charlie]<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Charlie knew he was getting closer as the warmth of the sun washed over his face.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The air was so crisp it was palpable.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The echo of Johnny’s laughter resonated in his heart as Charlie broke into a sprint towards the oak tree now in sight.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His love for his son filled the space of time and all of a sudden Johnny was in his arms again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“I tried, Johnny,” Charlie explained.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I really did.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No matter which way I turned, it just wasn’t right.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I need to be where the light is.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“The light is nice,” Johnny admitted.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“It’s wonderful!” Charlie agreed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“And it’s warm and all encompassing…and...I don’t know how else to explain how it makes me feel.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“They say that is the love of our Maker,” Johnny explained.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“When I found the light again I knew. I knew that I belonged here with you, Johnny.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“I know, Daddy,” Johnny reassured him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“And now Mama knows too,” he added. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>With that Johnny gently tugged his father’s arm.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“C’mon, Daddy,” he insisted.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“It’s time to go.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Go?” Charlie questioned.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“But I just got here.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Besides, I love it here.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Just wait until you see what’s on the other side of the hill,” Johnny exclaimed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>As Charlie and Johnny raced towards the top of the hill, Charlie felt Sarah’s love fill his soul and knew that it was only a matter of time until she too would reach the eventide.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Until then.<o:p></o:p></i></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>COPYRIGHT 2011. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.</i></span></span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-34979322402851756152011-04-17T09:00:00.000-07:002011-04-17T09:41:13.708-07:00Journey of a Thousand Miles<div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura Mayflower pulled the covers up around her just a bit more as the cold night air seeped in from the old window.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The voice stirred her from a deep sleep. As she struggled to come into full consciousness, she mentally replayed what she could remember from the dream.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There was a beautiful old woman with long, white hair wearing a white gown.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>"You need to leave, and you need to leave now, Maura," she forewarned.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>By this point Maura was wide awake. <i>Such an odd dream</i>, she thought to herself. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">She pulled herself up from her bed and headed to the kitchen to put on some tea. Sometimes all she needed was a little Chamomile to relax her back to sleep. As she reached into the cupboard for a mug, the voice behind her startled her. "Maura, you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">must</i> go now."</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura turned quickly, letting the mug slip from her hands shattering against the hardwood floor. Her stomach crawled into her throat when she realized no one was there. A draft blew through the old apartment. Maura shuddered, suddenly feeling uneasy. She turned off the stove and knew that for whatever reason, she must do as directed and depart immediately.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura scrambled through the apartment filling two duffel bags as fast as she could with whatever she thought she might need. However, she knew that was a ludicrous concept, as she had no idea where she was going or how long she'd even be gone.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Luckily when she had arrived in Las Vegas just six months before, she had only brought the two bags with her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The rest of her belongings were in a storage unit in Denver. Clothes, make-up, cell phone, laptop and cash on hand were the items she checked off her mental list, shoving them into her bags. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura pulled out of the parking garage and not really certain where she should go, headed north leaving the Henderson Valley. She continued checking her rear-view mirror, unable to shake the feeling she was avoiding something imminent and that whatever it was, it was big.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura had almost reached the turn to US-95 when she heard the explosion behind her. She pulled off to what little side of the road there was and emerged from her car. Gazing at the city lights below, a stagnant smell filled the air.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It all seemed so surreal.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In a mild state of shock, Maura got back into her car and continued heading north as if on auto-pilot.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As she drove she tried to digest the scene she left behind.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Unable to comprehend what was happening, Maura’s thoughts turned to the events which led her to Las Vegas in the first place.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She had owned a piano studio in the heart of Denver and was preparing for her students’ piano recital.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She had left the house early to get down to the studio and her husband Ian was going to arrive later with Kaleb, their one-year-old son.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>However, Ian and Kaleb never made it to the recital.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Instead, the vehicle had been struck by a drunk driver and they were killed instantly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura remembered very little about the days and weeks following the accident.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Everything was a blur of paperwork and phone calls; insurance companies, the funeral home, real estate agents, bank accounts, anything at all that had Ian’s name attached.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>People kept asking, “Is there someone we should call?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But there wasn’t. She was an only child and both of her parents had already passed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Alone at the age of thirty, Maura felt she needed to get away.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She thought that somehow by leaving she could magically bury that tragic part of her life.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Now, here was another tragedy on her heels and once again she was leaving.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">As the sun came up Maura pulled into a fuel station in an isolated little town. She stepped from her car and the elderly gas station attendant greeted her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The name on his shirt bore the same name as on the side of the building, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Gus.</i><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“You must be the owner,” Maura smiled.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Yes ma’am,” Gus nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Fill her up?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Thank you,” Maura replied.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“You’re not from here,” Gus remarked.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You must be on some sort of journey.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Yes actually, I am,” Maura answered, impressed by his keen intuition.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Well you’re on the right path, Kid,” Gus said with a wide smile.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Thinking that old people could sometimes be a bit eccentric, Maura simply smiled in return before heading inside to find some snacks.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura grabbed jerky, a few candy bars, and some drinks and headed to the counter.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She noticed the breaking news on the television mounted in the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The newscaster called it “The Sin City Bombing”, taking down numerous buildings and killing several people. Maura’s downtown apartment was one of those buildings.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She set her snacks down on the counter, still disbelieving what she just saw.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Is that everything?” the woman behind the register asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“If he’s done pumping I’ll pay for my fuel too,” she replied.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">The lady behind the counter looked out the window and then asked, “When who’s done pumping?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Gus,” Maura replied.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">The cashier had a puzzled look on her face and explained, “Miss, I don’t know who was out there helping you, but Gus has been dead for nearly twenty years.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Oh,” Maura stammered while handing the woman her money. “My mistake.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura walked out of the gas station contemplating the oddity of the last six hours.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Who was the woman who came to her in her sleep telling her to leave, thereby saving her life?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And just now-- if Gus didn’t pump her gas, who did?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Certainly someone did,</i> Maura thought.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Maybe I am still in shock from the explosion,</i> she considered while turning back onto the highway.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura reached Klamath Falls by early afternoon and figured she should find a place to eat lunch and stretch her legs for a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Parking her car outside of a little sandwich shop on Main Street, she noticed a dog chained to a park bench.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The dog whimpered as she walked past.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“What’s the matter, Boy?” Maura leaned down patting his head.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then looking around she asked, “Where’s your owner, huh Boy?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The dog whimpered some more, and lay his head against her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Once inside, Maura was seated in a booth next to the window and asked the waitress about the dog.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“I’m new in town so I’m not sure,” the waitress began in her thick Bostonian accent.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“But I heard one of the other customers say he belongs to Mrs. Hatchwoods from the building next door,” she continued, smacking her gum a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Apparently she’s like really old, so she probably forgot about him or something.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">After her lunch, Maura noticed the dog was still whimpering.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Feeling sorry for the pup, she fed him a piece of jerky from her pocket.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He scarfed it down as if it had been a while since his last meal.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Rubbing him behind the ears, Maura decided to see if Mrs. Hatchwoods was home.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She led the dog into the old red brick building next door. Searching the names on the mailboxes in the lobby she determined Mrs. Hatchwoods was in 3A.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She went to the door and rang the bell, but there was no answer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After another minute she started to knock.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The door across the hall opened and an elderly man appeared.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“She’s probably at the library,” the neighbor from 2A explained.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“She goes there every day about this time.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Oh,” answered Maura not quite sure what she should do now.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I think she may have forgotten about her dog.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">The little man smirked while replying, “I’m not surprised.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She’s been doing that a lot lately.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He called for the dog by name and Harpo seemed all too happy to push his way through the door.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I’ll keep him until she returns,” he offered.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“If you’re sure,” Maura stated.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Absolutely,” the gentleman replied, waving her off.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Harpo is used to keeping me company until Mrs. Hatchwoods comes looking for him.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The twinkle in his eye let Maura know that the dog was in good hands.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">As Maura left the building, she still felt like she should try to find Mrs. Hatchwoods and explain about the dog. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She felt responsible for untying Harpo and didn’t want Mrs. Hatchwoods to worry if she returned to find him gone. Pulling out her phone, she used the internet feature to search the address of the library downtown and began to walk in that direction.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Maura wandered through the library a bit before spotting an elderly woman hunched over one of the microfiche machines.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Mrs. Hatchwoods?” she asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">The lovely lady turned around and smiled before replying, “Who wants to know?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura chuckled slightly, caught off guard by her teasing response.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As the two began to talk, she couldn’t help but feel that Mrs. Hatchwoods was lonely. No matter how many questions Maura answered about herself the old woman seemed to have yet another.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Oh yes, I heard about that explosion,” Mrs. Hatchwoods remarked.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“It’s been the only thing on the news all day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m sorry to hear about your apartment.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“It’s okay,” Maura replied. “It’s a good time for me to move on. I was in Las Vegas much longer than I had intended anyway,” Maura explained.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“So, where are you headed now?” the old woman asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Well, I’ve always wanted to drive up the Oregon Coast.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My mother used to vacation there when she was a little girl and always spoke fondly of it.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Mrs. Hatchwoods became excited. “Yes,” she exclaimed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“That’s perfect!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Perfect?” Maura questioned.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Why is that perfect?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“My grandson lives on the Oregon Coast,” she replied, matter of factly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“I don’t understand,” Maura stated, unsure about the old woman’s reasoning.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Oh, you’ll do me a favor, won’t you dear?” Mrs. Hatchwoods begged.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Um, sure,” Maura stammered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I suppose I could.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I mean, it depends on-”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Wonderful!” Mrs. Hatchwoods unfastened the clasp to her purse and pulled out an envelope.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“He lives in or near Two Harbors and I need to get this letter to him; it’s very important. Do you think you could do that for me dear?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura knew that Mrs. Hatchwoods probably had no idea the magnitude her request held.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She didn’t know if she’d be able to locate this woman’s grandson.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What if he didn’t even live in Two Harbors anymore?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After all, Mrs. Hatchwoods forgot about her own dog hadn’t she?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nevertheless, Maura agreed and left for Two Harbors the next morning with the sealed envelope bearing only the name, “Collier Sullivan”.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">The town was just as picturesque as she imagined.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Winding roads lined with a forest of tall Spruce on one side and flanked on the other by the ocean.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Maura could see a lighthouse in the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She spotted the post office, which looked like a mere fishing cottage.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She figured if anyone would know where Collier Sullivan lived, it would be the postmaster.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Yes, I know Sullivan,” the man at the window nodded. “2433 Old Cape Road,” he continued.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Just follow Main Street north to the edge of town, making a left at Old Cape.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He’s at the very end, out by the lighthouse.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Following those directions Maura couldn’t believe the simplicity with which this was coming together.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She found herself talking to Mrs. Hatchwoods as if she were right there.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You’re a lucky woman,” Maura said out loud.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura followed the road to an old, wooden clad, beach bungalow bearing the numbers 2433.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She made her way to the door and knocked for what seemed like several minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Walking back towards her car a young woman, possibly in her early twenties, rode up on an old bicycle. The girl came to a stop when she reached Maura.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“My Pa and I live down by the lighthouse and I saw your car drive up the road,” the wiry girl said. “Are you looking for Doc? I figure you’re here about the cottages.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Um, I was told Collier Sullivan lives here,” explained Maura.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Yep, that’s Doc.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Doctor </i>Sullivan,” the girl said with a gapped-toothed grin.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“But he won’t be back for a few weeks. You must be a tourist, because I know everyone in this town and I ain’t never seen you before.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But if you want to rent a cottage, I can help you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Cottage?” Maura inquired.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Doc owns the cottages down the lane,” the girl explained pointing to a dirt road that went back past the main house.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“He rents them out to vacationers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I mean it’s sort of late in the season for tourists, so of course you’ll get the discounted rate.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura chuckled at the rapid rate of speed with which the girl spoke.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I really just need to speak to him,” she explained.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Well, as long as you’ll be waiting for a few weeks, you might as well rent one of the cottages,” the girl responded a little too eagerly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura laughed again. “Why are you so anxious to rent me a cottage?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">The girl blushed, realizing she may have been a bit presumptuous.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Well, you see,” she began just as quickly as she had before.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“On account Doc’s retiring from the University, he’s staying in the city until the semester is over ‘cause he’s got a lot of what he calls ‘loose ends’ to tie up.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But he done told me if I rent cottages while he’s away he’ll pay me for my troubles.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And I can really use the money, see. My name’s Neptune by the way,” the girl said extending a hand to Maura.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“You know, I think I will take you up on the rental,” Maura replied, shaking hands with the peculiar girl.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Over the next few days Maura unpacked and started to settle in a bit. She loved taking long walks on the beach and could understand now why her mother was so fond of the area.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In Two Harbors, Maura somehow felt closer to her mother.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Approximately two Saturdays after her arrival Maura headed into town for some groceries.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She noticed a few signs regarding an estate sale and went to check it out.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Many items throughout the home were marked with a set price, while out in the yard was a section of more valuable items up for silent bid.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Maura made her way towards an antique upright piano; an original Steinway.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Maura ran her fingers lightly over the hand-carved upper panel.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Do you play?” a voice behind her asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Maura turned to face a dark-haired man, approximately her own age.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She immediately noticed his silver-blue eyes and cute dimples as he smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I used to,” Maura answered suddenly needing to clear her dry throat.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I mean, I do.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I just haven’t played lately,” she further explained.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Mrs. Kaczynski was the only piano player in this town for years,” he explained.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Maybe you should take her place.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After all, someone has to play at all of the town festivals, not to mention the Mayor’s inauguration,” the man added with a wink.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Maura giggled a bit shyly. “But this sure is a beautiful piece,” she said drawing her attention back to the piano.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Well, it’s got good bones,” the man remarked.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“But it needs restoring. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Did you see the carved initials back here in the lower right corner?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Maura gasped and immediately walked around, crouching down to get a better look at the initials, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">S.V.</i><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Do you believe in ghosts?” she blurted.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“I’m sorry?” the man asked, letting out a laugh.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura blushed slightly before explaining.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“It’s just that my grandmother used to tell me stories about my great-great grandfather.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He was a great pianist and his very first piano was a Steinway that as a boy he carved his initials into.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His name was Stefan Vanvalkenburg.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Pausing for a brief moment she looked at the man before wondering out loud, “Could it be? <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I mean, do you think?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The man smiled, enamored by Maura’s embrace of such a possibility.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“By the way, my name’s Collier Sullivan,” the man said extending his hand.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I’m told you’re the woman renting my cottage which makes you Maura Mayflower.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">You’re</i> Collier?” Maura asked in disbelief, shaking his hand.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Collier chuckled.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I can’t tell if you’re surprised or disappointed.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Oh, um,” Maura stuttered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“It’s just that Neptune mentioned you were retiring and I thought you’d be older,” she continued while rifling through her purse for the note.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Well, I received an inheritance, so it’s sort of an early--.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Realizing he had lost her attention, Collier stopped talking and waited instead for Maura to say something.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Here it is,” she proclaimed, handing the letter to him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“What’s this?” Collier asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“It’s a letter from your grandmother,” Maura answered, pleased with herself that she was finally making good on her promise to Mrs. Hatchwoods.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“From <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">my </i>grandmother?” Collier asked in disbelief as he carefully tore open the envelope.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He had barely begun reading when he looked up inquisitively.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Where did you get this?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Like I said, from your Grandmother,” Maura replied.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I met her a few weeks ago.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Actually it’s a very long story, but she asked me to find you and give this to you.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Is this a joke? Do you think this is funny?” Collier asked a bit harshly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Maura was confused by his reaction.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She thought he would be pleased.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Look,” she said defensively. “All I know is I was supposed to give it to you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Collier took Maura by the elbow and led her near the front of the lawn, away from the other buyers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He took a deep breath, calming himself down and explained that two years earlier his grandmother had been asleep when a fire started in the basement.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The whole building was considered a loss, and all of the residents on the first floor died.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“But, I saw her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And the dog...the red brick building...the old man next door...”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Maura’s voice trailed off and the tears began to flow, suddenly overwhelmed by all of her recent unexplained encounters.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Collier apologized for snapping and Maura told him of the string of events that had occurred up to that point, setting in motion her journey of a thousand miles.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Collier listened without interruption and sat for a few minutes pondering over what Maura had just shared.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“I think you should buy that piano,” he simply stated.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“What?” Maura asked in disbelief.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“What does that have to do with--?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“To answer your question from before, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">do</i> believe in spirits,” he explained.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I believe that sometimes when we need it most those from the other side - who have gone before us, come to our aid and help us.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I think you were guided here because this is where you’re supposed to be.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“You seem so certain,” Maura replied, considering the words he spoke.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“This makes it so,” he said handing her the letter.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Maura took the letter from his hands and began to read aloud.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">How heavy do I journey on the way, when what I seek, my weary travel’s end, Doth teach that ease and that repose to say ‘Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend…</i><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What exactly is this?” Maura asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Shakespeare’s Sonnet,” he explained.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“It was my grandmother’s favorite.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She had it posted over the dining table to welcome guests.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then after a brief pause he added sincerely, “It seems to me you’ve had a heavy journey Maura. You’re at your weary travel’s end.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Besides, you know what they say,” he added smiling.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Not sure if she was just worn out from the recent events or just desperately wanted to believe in something, Maura liked Collier’s explanation.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She folded the letter and handing it back to him, started to walk away.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Wait. Where are you going?” Collier asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Maura turned and smiled before answering, “To put a bid on an old piano.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">COPYRIGHT 2011. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-57040353369247915332011-04-11T22:56:00.000-07:002014-10-22T23:04:22.150-07:00FallingNatalia noticed the change in the color of the leaves outside the big bay window of her study. She had always loved the fall season. While many considered fall the death of spring and summer, Natalia saw quite the contrary. It was the vibrancy of the new colors she found refreshing. She felt that the colors somehow gave a newness of life to something otherwise forgotten. Perhaps that is one reason Natalia loved old furniture too. She felt that when the piece was refinished, like the fall season, it revealed a newness of life. Of course for Natalia, her favorite piece also held the memory of her father. <br />
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Natalia inherited it after her father Nikolai was killed in a hit-and-run accident just one year ago. It was a custom Spanish-style 3-drawer desk; an anniversary gift her mother had given to her father five years earlier, just prior to losing her own life to cancer. When Natalia received the desk she knew her study would be the perfect place for it. She ran her fingers over the hand-carved apron before pulling open the top drawer. From it she retrieved an old black and white photo of her parents on their wedding day. She had been meaning to get it framed.<br />
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The ringtone of her phone snapped her back into reality. Natalia placed the photo back into the drawer. However the drawer would not close. She tried again, but the ringing of her phone seemed relentless.<br />
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“Rhyzkov,” she answered as she always did.<br />
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“Good morning Agent Rhyzkov,” the stern voice greeted. “This is Special Agent Aaron Hunt with the FBI. It is imperative I meet with you this afternoon. I need to talk to you about your former husband, Sergio De Luca.” As the voice on the other end continued, Natalia’s stomach turned a few knots. The meeting was scheduled for three o’clock that afternoon.<br />
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Hanging up the phone, Natalia let out a deep sigh and looked again at the fall foliage in front of her. In that moment the changing of the seasons seemed to resonate with Natalia. She thought about the many changes she herself had made over the past ten years. And like the leaves, the more changes she had made in her new life the more she felt she was slowly falling and drifting from her past; which was actually a good thing.<br />
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“No regrets.” Natalia could almost hear the words of her father in his thick Russian accent. It was as if he were right there - encouraging her, guiding her. He was her biggest supporter and often reminded her that she held her own destiny in the palm of her hands. “If you’re going to make a mistake,” he used to say, “go big. Then at least you can learn from it and never look back. No regrets.” She missed her father.<br />
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As Natalia pondered her father’s words in her mind, she wondered what exactly it was that she was supposed to “learn” from her former life; the life she left behind in New York. She desperately wanted to move on so she could never look back.<br />
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Natalia met Sergio while studying at Loyola University in Baltimore. Although her father jokingly warned her about getting involved with a Sicilian, the two were engaged quickly and married shortly after graduation. <br />
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Following their marriage, Natalia & Sergio moved to New York City. Sergio was glad to be back home as all of his family lived just across the bridge in Jersey. They welcomed Natalia, the first “outsider" and only blonde, to the family. However, it didn’t take long for Natalia to discover that Sergio and his family were involved with the infamous Mobs of New York and she filed an annulment.<br />
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Natalia had often pondered why she was attracted to Sergio to begin with. Why hadn’t she been able to see through him like she could so many others? Although she tried to live by the “no regrets” sentiment, she was slightly disappointed in herself for not having been a better judge of character. Her father had been teaching her to read people her entire life and she always felt she was good at it.<br />
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Natalia’s father used the family travel agency in Bethesda, Maryland as a cover for his work with the <i>Central Intelligence Agency</i>. His work was primarily dedicated to the Special Activities Division, heading up covert operations in his Russian homeland. He took great pride in serving his “adopted country”, as he called it. Nikolai told Natalia the fact she was born on Memorial Day meant something special; that if she would honor her family <i>and</i> her country she would become something great. It was through the events of her marriage and divorce Natalia finally felt this patriotism begin to pump through her own veins. Truth and justice were things her father had taught her to value and she wasn’t about to throw away her integrity for anyone, not even the man she thought she loved.<br />
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Natalia once again made an attempt to push the drawer closed, but it would not budge. Getting down on her knees, she pried the drawer from its track and pulled it out completely. She reached her hand as far back as she could and upon feeling the obstruction, pulled out a small pocket-sized manila envelope. She unfastened the clasp and turned the envelope over to produce a small brass key. The key was engraved with the initials <i>W.F.S.B.</i> Natalia turned the key over and over in the palm of her hand, wondering if it belonged to the original owner or placed there by her father. <br />
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The chiming of the grandfather clock in the hallway reminded Natalia of the reason she came into the study to begin with. Natalia slid the key onto the chain around her neck, opened her laptop and began to focus on the case in front of her. As a United States Marshall with the Witness Security Program, known as WitSec, Natalia would be relocating some new witnesses due to arrive at the Reno airport that evening. <br />
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Natalia felt a sense of anxiety while preparing for the witness transport. It wasn’t that the assignment was unlike anything she had dealt with before. It was the scheduled meeting beforehand, with Agent Hunt that had her stomach churning up into her throat. </div>
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Natalia knew what she needed was a good long run in the mountains. She quickly glanced at her watch and went through her mental checklist of everything she had to do for the day. She decided she would only have enough time for a quick run on her favorite trail. Her long legs and lean body mass made her a natural for long distance.<br />
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One of the reasons she bought her Southeast Central home in Carson City, Nevada was because of the proximity to the trails. A quick run would mean she could leave her three-bedroom Spanish-style home on Avalon Terrace and head right up the trail in the mountains behind her house. As she made her favorite 5 mile loop in 5400 feet elevation, Natalia breathed the fresh air into her lungs. She especially loved the smell of sage brush.<br />
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Upon returning home Natalia was surprised to find her front door ajar. She entered her home with caution, feeling sick to discover it had been ransacked. Unsure if the break-in had something to do with her new case, the meeting with Agent Hunt or completely coincidental, Natalia made a few phone calls; first to her supervisor, second to Agent Hunt and third to the local police. The police surveyed the scene and took an official report. Her supervisor immediately reassigned the transport to a different team and Agent Hunt had informed her to stay put until he arrived.<br />
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“I assume you know about the murder of New York’s Assistant D.A.,” Agent Hunt began, as he sat across the kitchen island from her that afternoon.<br />
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“I read about it a few months ago,” Natalia replied, noticing the seriousness he held in his brow.<br />
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“Then I assume you know that members of the Italian Mob are suspects in the case,” Hunt continued, his thin lips pursing as he spoke.<br />
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“Yes,” Natalia confirmed. “I read that too. Sergio’s name was listed in the paper.”<br />
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“Correct,” replied Agent Hunt. “It is the Agency’s understanding that the ADA discovered Sergio and his crew were involved with the extortion of many of New York City’s public officials, including one powerful judge. We believe that the mob learned of his discovery and put a hit out on him.”<br />
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“While I understand the seriousness of this matter,” Natalia began, “I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me. I’ve been estranged from Sergio for almost a decade now and have had no contact with him whatsoever.”<br />
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Agent Hunt crossed his arms in front of him and leaned forward with all manner of seriousness. “I realize that. But it is also the Agency’s understanding that your father was the one who tipped off the DA’s office to begin with. It seems that your father had evidence of the extortion and was planning to turn it over to the DA’s office but was killed before having the opportunity to do so.”<br />
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Natalia’s heart sank so far deep into her chest she felt like she could not breathe. “What are you saying?” she asked, somehow already knowing the answer.<br />
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“We believe that your father’s death was no accident,” stated Hunt. For the first time since being there, his face softened as he waited for Natalia’s reaction.<br />
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Natalia sat in shock while she struggled to comprehend the things Hunt was telling her. Finally she looked at him to continue. Nikolai had began investigating Sergio as early as her engagement to him. He then used his connections to keep tabs on his new son-in-law and did not like what he had learned. Knowing that his only daughter was as stubborn as any Russian, he knew she would never believe accusations against her husband unless she discovered the truth herself. Nikolai made certain that just enough specific information was revealed to her, allowing her to draw her own conclusions resulting in the annulment of their marriage.<br />
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Following the annulment it was Nikolai who had contacted an old friend in the US Marshall Service and requested they offer his daughter a job. He wanted his daughter to have a fresh start and to put as much distance between her and Sergio as possible.<br />
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“But,” Agent Hunt reassured her, “the Agency would have never moved on the recommendation had they felt you did not exemplify the right qualities and skills.”<br />
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Natalia looked up to see an encouraging smile sneak across Hunt’s face. She began to think perhaps he wasn’t as gruff as she had initially believed.<br />
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Agent Hunt suddenly cleared his throat, his face sobering up once again. “Now that you’ve had this break-in, I can’t help but think it is all related. Sergio must think that you know where this evidence is or that it is somehow in your possession.”<br />
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“But I don’t know anything about it,” argued Natalia.<br />
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“Understood,” Hunt acknowledged. “But, Sergio doesn’t know that, which is why we think he’s here in town. My team is flying in tonight. Sit tight and I will contact you once we have a strategy in place.” <br />
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Natalia lay in bed that night tossing and turning over the news she had just been dealt. <i>How could Sergio have put a hit out on her father? Or worse – killed him with his own hands? </i> Without realizing it, she began stroking the key around her neck. <i>W.F.S.B. What can that possibly mean?</i> Unable to sleep, Natalia went into the study and began an internet search of the initials. She found the call letters for a weather channel in Hartford, CT. After a page full of weather-related entries, she came across the “Waste Facility Sitting Board” for the state of Wisconsin. Natalia knew neither of those was correct. After about five more pages of searching, she finally found it. This had to be it, she was sure.<br />
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Natalia’s heart pounded heavily as she grabbed her credit card, cell phone and keys. If she left now she knew she could make the red-eye flight to New York. Natalia knew there was a Washington Federal Savings Bank in the heart of New York City, just off Broadway. In fact, she remembered when her father took her there to open her very first savings account. Her father had banked there for years. It would make sense that he had a safety deposit box at that same branch. She had to go and see what was inside.<br />
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The entire flight seemed like a daze to Natalia. She didn’t sleep like the other passengers. All she could do was replay Hunt’s words over and over in her mind. Sergio had killed the Assistant District Attorney and Sergio had most likely killed her father.<br />
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<i>What are the odds that I found this key on this very day?</i> She asked herself. <i>What are the odds? </i> Natalia felt certain that her actions were being guided; guided by her father from the other side. After landing she stopped only for a minute in the airport restroom to freshen up and then made her way to the subway. <br />
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As she exited the subway she couldn’t help but feel as if someone were following her. The hairs on the back of her neck began to rise ever so slightly, and if there was one thing that Natalia learned over the years it was to trust her gut. As Natalia turned the corner she looked over her shoulder and made a quick mental note of those she saw behind her. She noticed a man in a dark suit. She casually glanced behind her with every turn and noticed that the same man in the suit was gaining on her. As she entered the bank, she looked once again behind her. The man in the suit seemed to have disappeared. Natalia quickly made her way to the teller and requested access to the safety deposit box.<br />
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Suddenly, a hand grabbed her wrist and Natalia turned to see the man in the dark suit. “Come with me,” he said in a commanding tone as he began to pull her away from the teller. Just then the front doors of the bank flew open and Natalia turned to see Sergio and his men rush in. Everything seemed to be happening in an instant and yet moving in slow motion at the same time.<br />
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Sergio called out her name while he and two other men with guns came towards her. Then several other men, one of whom was Agent Hunt, also rushed the scene.<br />
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Sergio and his men were yelling. Hunt and his men were yelling. Bank customers were screaming and crying. Sergio pointed his gun directly at Natalia. She caught her breath in her throat. But lacking the guts to pull the trigger, he quickly changed course and pointing the gun directly at Agent Hunt fired a shot into his chest. Hunt fell to the ground.<br />
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SWAT swarmed the building and took Sergio down so fast there was no time for any other shots to be fired. Within mere minutes the scene had been controlled and Sergio and his men taken into custody.<br />
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“Are you okay?” Natalia asked, kneeling over Agent Hunt.<br />
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“Thanks to the vest I am,” winced Hunt as he patted his chest. “And you--,” he continued, shaking his finger at Natalia like a father scolding his child. “You were supposed to wait for further instructions.”<br />
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“I know,” Natalia confessed. “But I just couldn’t sit by and do nothing.”<br />
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“I figured,” Hunt also confessed, slightly rolling his eyes. “That’s why I had you followed. We had been following Sergio and knew he was following you.”<br />
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“You had me followed?” Natalia asked, her eyes wide opened.<br />
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“Affirmative,” Hunt replied, nodding in the direction of the man in the dark suit. “I was afraid you might go and do something stupid.” He added with a smirk on his face.<br />
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“Like this?” Natalia laughed sheepishly.<br />
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“Like this,” Hunt confirmed, also laughing.<br />
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Both Natalia and Agent Hunt were pleased to discover the lockbox held the evidence they were looking for. This would not only avenge the death of the ADA, but also of Natalia’s father. Hunt said she would probably have to testify but that with the new evidence the trial should go smoothly. Quite frankly, Natalia smiled to herself, if it meant getting to see Agent Hunt again she wouldn’t mind.<br />
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Just two days later as Natalia was back home heading up to her favorite trail it began to rain, enhancing the smell of the sage brush. Natalia breathed the fall air into her lungs and let the light rain wash over her face. The rain was like a sign for her; a sign that her past was finally being washed away and that she was now heading towards something better. There was a newness of life pumping through her veins with each stride. She finally felt renewed.<br />
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<div>
“No regrets,” Natalia smiled.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br />COPYRIGHT 2011. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.</i></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-46204971838074924072011-04-11T21:11:00.000-07:002014-10-22T23:07:21.829-07:00The Date<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Miriam rubbed the sweat from her palms and took a deep breath before hitting “send” on the email in front of her. “Well, here goes!” she sighed, leaning back in her chair. She wasn’t sure if the nauseating feeling in the pit of her stomach was one of excitement or regret over the fact she had just agreed to go on a blind date.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Although Miriam resisted the idea at first, she finally gave in when her friend Amy pushed her to join one of those dot-com dating sites. To be quite honest, she quickly learned she had good reason to be a little leery too. Within the first week, Miriam received more than one solicitation to meet a stranger for a “late night booty call” or what some referred to as a "hook-up". Miriam was beginning to think it was possible there weren’t any decent men left in this world. Just when she was ready to give up she received a private message from <i>GymGuy21</i>. After a few email exchanges, Miriam discovered his real name was Clint and he was a physical trainer for a local health club. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“This will be interesting,” Miriam sighed while getting dressed in front of the mirror. Miriam patted her tummy and turned from side to side, thinking she desperately needed to get back into shape. Her divorce had sent her into a slight depression and she had easily gained twenty or so pounds the last few years. Miriam suddenly felt like a frumpy, forty year-old with no chance of finding love. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As Miriam walked over to the café on the corner to meet Amy for lunch, she couldn’t help but notice each woman she passed. The more she scrutinized them, the more they seemed to all have tiny waists, perky breasts, white teeth, and shiny hair. It made her wonder why she hadn’t kept herself in shape all these years.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well, a lot of it’s fake,” Amy reassured her after their food had arrived. “All women our age feel old and frumpy. That’s why they do it; liposuction, implants, veneers, and extensions,” Amy continued. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As Miriam scanned the café, she wondered if it were true. Had all of these seemingly beautiful women actually altered their looks? “Hmm, maybe,” she conceded. “And I never said <i>old</i>,” Miriam added.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What?” Amy asked in between mouthfuls of pasta.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I said, I didn’t say <i>old</i>. I used the word <i>plain</i>.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Amy nodded. “Right, that’s what I meant.” She went on as she twirled more pasta onto her fork. “They feel old because they look it. That’s why they have to get all that stuff done. You, on the other hand, look fabulous. You don’t need work.” </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Nice save,” Miriam rolled her eyes. “But look at these women. This is who I have to compete with, and they have brought their A-game. I, on the other hand, have thinning hair, Diet Coke-stained teeth, and haven’t seen a small waist-line since college.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Amy waved her fork full of pasta as if dismissing Miriam’s insecurities altogether. “Yeah, but you have so much more to offer,” Amy explained between bites. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You can’t even begin to understand,” Miriam protested. “You’re like a size zero and you sit here shoving your face full of pasta while I pick at my salad and fat-free dressing. You’ll probably order dessert too.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I am only going to say this once, so listen closely my friend,” Amy forewarned as she swallowed. “Most women spend tons of money to look good. And most of those women are superficial. Get it out of your head that all men go for that type. You, on the other hand are a breath of fresh air. Your beauty isn't just a façade. You are you, always. The <i>real</i> you. You say you feel plain, but you don’t need to cake on all that make-up. You have natural beauty. And I’m not just saying that because you are my friend,” Amy continued. “Trust me. If you were ugly, I’d tell you that you were a 'special spirit' or something.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“<i>Special Spirit</i> is code for ‘ugly’?” Miriam laughed.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Amy nodded and proceeded. “You have big dark eyes that most women would kill for. Your lashes are long and thick and curly. You have great skin with barely a wrinkle. You have a smile that is contagious and as luck would have it straight teeth. So you’ve put on a little weight. So what? It's not like you're vying to be <i>Discovery Channel's</i> next "Two-Ton Woman". You are well put together and above all, you are brilliant. In fact, I’d go as far to say you are the smartest person I know. Not only are you an intellect, but you are freaking hilarious too.” Amy set her fork aside and leaned forward with all seriousness. “When you are in the room, people gravitate towards you and listen eagerly as you captivate them with story after story. You are the complete package my dear and any smart man who takes a chance will realize that too.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Miriam blushed and started to interject before being cut off. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“And quite frankly,” Amy added while reloading her fork, “I think most women are jealous of you. I know I for one would trade my high-velocity metabolism and forsake all of the bottomless pasta in the world to have half the qualities you do. So,” Amy stated matter-of-factly, holding her hands up in front of her, “I don’t want to hear anymore whining. Do you hear me? This pity party is officially over.”<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Understood,” Miriam smiled in gratitude and then sat silent for a few moments, letting it soak in. “You’re right,” she exclaimed. “I do have all of those qualities, and there is no reason for me to feel ashamed or less than anyone else out there.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Amy sat back and smiled, pleased with her dissertation. “So, tell me about what’s-his-face. Where is he taking you? What’s he like? Is he cute?”<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The week leading up to their date, Clint and Miriam exchanged a few more emails and spoke on the phone a handful of times. Through that, Miriam discovered that the art of flirting was like riding a bike. Once you get back on, so to speak, it all comes back. Miriam felt like a giddy school-girl, riddled with anticipation.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Friday night Miriam pulled into the parking lot of the pancake house and saw Clint jump out of a jeep parked a few spots away. She recognized him immediately from his pictures and waved as he walked over to greet her.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Miriam was pleased that Clint looked like his photo, but was a little caught off guard that he had one lazy eye. While she didn’t feel it detracted from his overall appearance, she wished he would have sent her a picture that revealed both of his eyes, instead of all from the same angle as she suddenly realized he had done. Miriam could tell that Clint seemed pleased with her appearance. She breathed a sigh of relief as they walked into the restaurant. <i>This might actually go well,</i> she thought to herself. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The food came fast and the conversation seemed to pick up right where it left off in their last email. Soon, however, Miriam noticed blood beginning to pool around the aperture of Clint’s nose. She kept waiting for him to excuse himself to take care of it, but he didn’t. To be quite frank, the sight of it grossed her out. <i>Can’t he feel that? </i> She silently asked herself. The pool of blood seemed to thicken and grow darker, which disgusted Miriam even more. She could hardly look at him while he was talking. Worried that he might pick up on her avoidance, Miriam determined it best to simply advise him of the situation.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Um,” she stammered. “I think your nose is bleeding.” </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oh no,” gasped Clint as he abruptly stood and rushed to the men’s room. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>While Miriam sat waiting, she stared blankly out of the window from the corner booth. She noticed a man without any legs in a motorized wheelchair driving up and down the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. <i>Why is he just riding back and forth like that?</i> She wondered. Then she laughed at herself at how easily distracted she could be at times.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Clint returned and the conversation resumed as they ate their dinner. Miriam had asked Clint about his career. As he began to talk, she noticed the blood returning to his nasal base. <i>What is wrong with him?</i> She wondered. Just as before, Clint seemed oblivious to the seepage. And just as before, Miriam couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye as he spoke. As she struggled to look anywhere but at Clint’s nose, Miriam’s attention was again detained by the man outside in the wheelchair. From the curb down to the stoplight and back to the curb again. Back and forth. Back and forth. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>All of a sudden Miriam realized she hadn’t a heard a word Clint was saying. <i>Focus, Miriam!</i> She scolded herself. But as she turned her attention back to Clint, the pool of blood was still there and was growing rapidly. Miriam thought if she could just concentrate on his eyes, perhaps she wouldn’t notice the hideous scene before her. Despite her efforts, Miriam felt ill at ease. She then worried that staring at his eyes could make Clint a bit self-conscious. If she only looked at the lazy eye, Clint might think she was obsessed with his imperfection. On the other hand, if she only stared at his other eye, he might feel she was purposely avoiding the lazy eye and take offense. She quickly glanced from one eye to the next, but all she could see was blood. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>Can’t you feel that?</i> Miriam screamed inside her head. <i>What is wrong with you? Your nose is bleeding and it is disgusting! I can’t bear to even look at you!</i> Miriam’s irritation seemed to grow by the second. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Trying to hide her annoyance, Miriam found herself once again distracted by the man in the motorized wheelchair.<i> And you! What on earth are you doing, riding up and down the sidewalk? I mean, who does that? </i>As much as Miriam wished she could freely unleash the admonitions from her mind, she resisted and instead smiled politely and cleared her throat. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Um, Clint,” she stammered, sort of waving her index finger at his face. “I think you’re bleeding again.” </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>While Miriam had hoped for another swift exodus to the men’s room, Clint’s knee-jerk reaction was to bring his sleeve up to his nose and wipe across, thereby breaking the pool of blood and sending it streaming all over his face. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Caught off guard by his own actions, Clint hastily reached for his napkin. Miriam wanted to be helpful but was so appalled by the scene, it was all she could do to turn away and hoped he accepted the napkin she held out for him. Clint, oblivious to Miriam’s disdain, yanked the napkin from her hand and made a mad dash towards the men’s room once again. In his absence, Miriam again returned to the man outside. <i>You are a nut job</i>, she sighed. <i>And my date is a nut job</i>, she sighed again. <i>And you,</i> she chuckled to herself. <i>You are a nut job as well. </i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></i>When Clint finally emerged from the men’s room, Miriam feigned a headache and thanked Clint for dinner. Clint paid the bill and walked Miriam to her car. As much as she had enjoyed flirting and talking on the phone to Clint all week, and as much as she had dreamt of a fun night possibly ending in a nice kiss, she was dismayed at what now appeared to be crusted-over, dried blood on Clint’s nose. Instead, Miriam extended her hand for a warm handshake, which Clint accepted before opening the car door for her. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Miriam hadn’t driven but a mile down the road before digging her cell phone from her purse to call Amy. As she replayed the events Amy couldn’t help but laugh hysterically. It didn’t take long for Miriam to see the humor and join in the laughter herself. By the time Miriam reached her home, she was in much better spirits than when she had left the restaurant.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>True, the date wasn’t everything she had hoped for. And true, she also knew that the bloodshed of the evening was enough to haunt her from ever seeing Clint again. Nonetheless, Miriam felt the evening was a success. She had officially reentered the world of dating and overcoming the first obstacle, namely fear, was a step in the right direction. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As Miriam dressed for bed she passed by the mirror and paused to study her reflection for several minutes.<i> Nope. I’m not ultra thin. I don’t have glossy hair, white teeth, or perky breasts.</i> Miriam laughed and then added, <i>and apparently I have the attention span of a poodle! </i><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Then, looking deep into her own eyes she felt a surge of empowerment course through her. Fear and doubt had been replaced with faith and hope as Miriam settled in for the night and the new journey which lay ahead.<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span">COPYRIGHT 2011. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author</span></i>.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-80952262559533585972011-04-11T20:30:00.000-07:002011-04-17T09:14:33.419-07:00The Choice<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Kate sat in the parking lot of her doctor’s office, feeling slightly nervous at the decision she was about to make. It had only been a year since her husband Haydn had died. She missed him terribly and did not like making this sort of decision without him.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>They had initially decided to freeze Haydn’s sperm approximately three years ago, prior to his deployment to Afghanistan. The young couple desperately wanted to have a child and Kate had been struggling with infertility. Kate had been in the middle of infertility treatments when Haydn’s company had been activated. The decision at the time was to continue with the cycles as originally planned, in hopes that she would become pregnant even while he was away.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>While the couple was relieved that Haydn’s tour only lasted a brief ten months, they were saddened that their efforts to conceive had not yet been realized. Upon Haydn’s return home, he resumed his duties as a state trooper with the Minnesota Highway Patrol. Kate was happy to have Haydn back home from the war, and Haydn was happy to be doing a job he loved. All they needed now was a baby to complete their family. As Kate sat in her car thumbing through the forms in front of her, she couldn’t help but think of the events that had lead to Haydn’s unexpected death.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>It was a dark, wintry night and Haydn was working a graveyard shift on the main interstate spanning the Twin Cities. A call came in from dispatch. A gunman had fired shots in the West Expansion at the Mall of America and proceeded to lead officers on a high speed chase through the city before getting on the freeway. Haydn had responded to the call and joined the other units in pursuit of the black Escalade.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The roads were slick and visibility impaired due to the high winds and freezing rain. Haydn’s patrol jeep hit a patch of black ice and he lost control of the vehicle, rolling several times down the embankment before landing in the ditch. His body was thrown and he was killed on impact.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Kate had played the events of the evening over and over again in her mind several times since. Was she really a believer like she professed? Could she really accept that this was fate or somehow part of “the Plan”? If he had not responded to that call, would his life have been claimed in some other way? Of course, she knew it didn’t matter. She knew that Haydn loved his job and there was no way he would have let the call go.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The past year had been anything but easy for Kate. Yes, she knew what it was like to be lonely. She knew what it was like to wonder day in and day out if she would see her husband again. She dealt with that while Haydn was away at war and everyday since he’d been back that he put on his badge and went to work. But every time he did return, she grew more and more hopeful of his return night after night. But now, that hope was no longer her reality.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The rain drops against the windshield brought Kate back to reality for a moment. Once again she turned to the paperwork on her lap. After Haydn’s death, Kate had stopped her current round of infertility treatments. Her doctor told her to take some time off and come back and see him if she wanted to start up again. The alternative was to sign the necessary authorization forms to have the specimen destroyed. Kate had thought about both options many nights during the past year.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>On the one hand, she really wanted to be a mother, and above all else she wanted to be a mother to Haydn’s baby. Part of her wanted to proceed with the treatments, in hopes to have any part of Haydn in her life she possibly could. However, she knew that choice would bear a lot of uncertainties and would be hard. Would she be able to raise a baby on her own? Should she ever desire to be married again would her new husband be accepting of this baby? And above all, Kate wondered, what would Haydn want her to do?<br /><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Things have a way of working themselves out.” Kate could almost hear his voice as she repeated those words in her mind. Haydn used to say that to her all the time. Kate drew her hand to her face and wiped the tear from her cheek. Suddenly, as if he was there, sitting along right beside her holding her hand she again heard those words. “Things have a way of working themselves out.”<br /><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Kate breathed a heavy sigh as she signed the form to discard any chances to ever bear Haydn’s child. Suddenly, she felt a warmth rise within her chest and knew that she made the right decision. She knew her husband loved her and wanted her to move on. Kate knew this meant she was ending a chapter of her life. She rested her head against the steering wheel for a moment as the tears began to flow almost uncontrollably. Kate shed tears over the memory of her loving husband. She shed tears over her dream for the baby she always wanted. And finally, she shed tears of solace, for the burden of the choice had finally been lifted from her. <div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "><br /></span></p><div style="text-indent: 0px;"> This question, finally answered, gave her the peace of mind and closure she needed and Kate soon found, as Haydn promised, things indeed had a way of working themselves out.</div><p></p></div><div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />COPYRIGHT 2011. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-34374948673785093622011-03-13T09:38:00.000-07:002011-03-13T10:45:07.535-07:00Writer's Workshop: Story Starter<div><div>I gave a little tutorial on overcoming writer's block over <a href="http://emmacmiller.blogspot.com/2011/03/writers-block.html">{{HERE}}</a> on my main blog, all about using the Journalism rule of 6 W's. This is the story I have come up with so far...</div><div>________________________</div><div><br /></div><div>Maura pulled the covers up around her just a bit more as the cold, night air seeped in from the old window. The voice in her dream was enough to stir her from a deep sleep. Maura wasn't even sure what it meant. As she struggled to come into full consciousness, she replayed what little she could remember. She was sipping a glass of lemonade, when the old woman appeared before her. The woman had long, white, scraggly hair and was wearing a simple, white cotton gown. She was beautiful except for the wild look in her eyes. "You need to leave, and you need to leave now," she forewarned. By this point, Maura was wide awake. <i>Such an odd thing to say</i>, she thought to herself. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maura pulled herself up from her bed and headed to the kitchen to put on some tea. Sometimes all she needed was a little Chamomile to relax her back to sleep. As she reached into the cupboard for a mug, the voice behind her startled her. "Maura. You must go now."</div><div><br /></div><div>Maura turned quickly, letting the mug slip from her hands and shatter against the hardwood floor beneath her. Her stomach began to crawl into the base of her throat as she saw no one there. She shuddered at the draft that blew through at that very moment. Maura suddenly felt uneasy. She was certain now that this wasn't a dream. Although she didn't understand the logic behind the demand, she sensed the urgency. Maura turned off the stove and knew that for whatever reason, she must do as the voice indicated and depart immediately.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maura scrambled through the house filling two duffel bags as fast as she could with whatever she thought she might need. However, she knew that was a ludicrous concept, as she had no idea where she was going or how long she'd even be gone. Still, she continued to pack. Clothes, make-up, prescriptions, her passport, cell phone, charger, and any cash on hand were the items she checked off her mental list as she shoved them into her bags. Maura grabbed her laptop and her bags and quickly loaded her car. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>As Maura pulled out of her driveway, she was grateful that for whatever reason she had decided to fill up her gas tank the night before rather than waiting until morning as she had usually done. Still not sure where she should drive, Maura headed south, leaving the Carson Valley behind her. Maura continued checking her rear-view mirror, unable to shake the feeling that she was avoiding something imminent, and that whatever it was, it was big.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maura had almost reached the mountain turn-off to Glenbrook when she heard the explosion. She pulled off to what little side of the road there was and emerged from her car. Gazing at the city lights below, a stagnant smell filled the air.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>COPYRIGHT 2011. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-54329649155810552552011-01-12T00:38:00.000-08:002011-03-13T10:45:20.342-07:00You're Not Here<div>Sometimes I close my eyes and wrap </div><div>my arms a little tighter</div><div>around the pillow in your place.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I can only imagine.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I close my eyes and wonder</div><div>what your hand might feel like </div><div>brushing against my cheek.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I can only imagine.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I close my eyes and listen</div><div>as the wind becomes your breath,</div><div>sighing the rhythms of life.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I can only imagine.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I close my eyes and stay still,</div><div>yearning for your words</div><div>to fill the coffers of my heart.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I can only imagine.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I close my eyes and bask</div><div>in the sun as it becomes your lips,</div><div>dancing warmth onto mine.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I can only imagine.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I close my eyes and hope</div><div>that the dream I dreamed is real</div><div>and you're here when I awake.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I can only imagine. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can only imagine,</div><div>Because you're not here.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">COPYRIGHT 2011. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the autho</span></i>r.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-78932266581704582352010-05-08T23:59:00.000-07:002010-05-09T00:03:31.818-07:00The Bear (A Limerick)I recently ran across a "book of poetry" I had written for a 5th grade project. For our poetry unit, each time we'd discuss a new type of poetry, we were then given the assignment to write in that genre. At the end of the poetry unit each student then compiled his or her completed works into a booklet. When I found this book recently, and read through it, I mostly laughed or cringed at how some of it sounded. However, I must say I thought my limerick was pretty clever for a 5th grader. Enjoy!!!<br />___________<br /><br />The Bear<br /><br />There once was a little bear<br />She had some fuzzy brown hair.<br />A little boy gave her<br />a little red razor<br />and the little brown bear was bare.<br /><br /><br />COPYRIGHT 2009. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-74024332504175352162010-01-15T07:57:00.000-08:002011-03-13T10:42:54.745-07:00PiecesBroken.<br />A million little pieces.<br />Swept aside to be forgotten<br />Or picked up. Cared for. Mended.<br /><br /><br />To do nothing is to risk everything.<br />To never feel. To never live. To never be.<br />To do something holds greater fear,<br />of being dropped into pieces again.<br /><br /><br />Shattered. Tattered. Torn.<br />To feel loves blossom and loves scorn.<br />To one day shine so bright that no one sees<br />The cracks. The damage. But just me.<br /><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >COPYRIGHT 2009. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author</span>.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmjyL30d6xAtu6RKpt_nF5U5kgUS2VV6qFbGvaY975P13sLJhzI6KVwTYpyHEk9Rj27WQAxIcENuvPtMMjJm7V51HTUIrOZs4QC9D8mhztvZTaQFiH40iKcrbfSRGjhE-3oW3kKYvZsI/s1600-h/broken_glass.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 333px; display: block; height: 267px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426984416200543474" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmjyL30d6xAtu6RKpt_nF5U5kgUS2VV6qFbGvaY975P13sLJhzI6KVwTYpyHEk9Rj27WQAxIcENuvPtMMjJm7V51HTUIrOZs4QC9D8mhztvZTaQFiH40iKcrbfSRGjhE-3oW3kKYvZsI/s400/broken_glass.jpg" border="0" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-6439286561228807452009-05-24T11:08:00.001-07:002011-03-13T10:44:04.076-07:00Not Mine To MakeI have in my mind two different plays;<br />the one that ends in fortune and the one that ends in plight.<br /><br />I feel I must consider the road where each one lays<br />where will they lead me and how long until there's light?<br /><br />As circumstances have it, currently to ponder<br />the obvious is not so, the ending not so clear.<br /><br />So often I sit, allowing my mind to wander,<br />the meanings I transpose; but the author is not here.<br /><br />What if the outcome is one of naught?<br />Into tiny little pieces my heart will surely break.<br /><br />To be still as I have been taught;<br />Demeanor, grace and poise is the coat that I must take.<br /><br />My mind I am preparing, my heart the worst I fear<br />for that one ending moment of crushing, utter despair<br /><br />And yet the other path, the one that's no so clear:<br />A small, yet hopeful glimpse; do I even dare?<br /><br />For that is the song that makes my heart sing,<br />that gives breath to life, and purpose for being.<br /><br />That is the song I so want to hear ring<br />but afraid to reveal the path I'm foreseeing.<br /><br />For me, I know it's right; for me there is no choice.<br />And yet I cannot share my words, lest fear and doubt creep in<br /><br />The answer must come from another voice,<br />from another path I have not since been.<br /><br />From that author; he gets to write<br />He gets to create this ending; what's in store.<br /><br />Only this I know with all my might,<br />I could never love an author more.<div><br /></div><div>COPYRIGHT 2009. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-16754598884379521132009-01-04T21:41:00.000-08:002011-03-13T10:44:35.005-07:00now what?I love the way you look at me when I'm talking.<br />I love the way you laugh at all the right spots.<br />I love the way you play along with the things I wanna do.<br />I love the way you say just the right thing when I least expect it.<br />I love the moments you indulge me with my desires.<br />I love how you get me, especially when not many others do.<br />I love that we like so many of the same things or think the same thing at the same time.<br />I love all of those things.<br />So now what?<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>COPYRIGHT 2009. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-72856803946160999062008-10-07T14:27:00.000-07:002008-10-09T01:43:02.398-07:00The Parable of the Frog<span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;color:#ffcc33;">My <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Bloggy</span> Friend,<span style="color:#33ccff;"> </span></span><a href="http://taleofakansasgirl.blogspot.com/2008/07/happiness-in-little-pool-or-in-big-pond.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;"><strong>Ronnica (click here for blog)</strong></span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#ffcc33;"> , posted an experience about her roommate finding a frog in their pool. She then equated it to her own spiritual journey. I told her what a cute Parable this would make. So, here is <strong><em>My Rendition</em></strong> of Ronnica's parable of a frog.<br />______</span><br /></span><br />Mr. Frog was a curious frog. Day after day he would sit on his lily pad in the pond and wonder what life in the "outside world" was like. Mr. Frog could often hear splashing and laughter coming from the nearby pool. "Sounds like fun!" Mr. Frog thought.<br /><br />One day as Mr. Frog was sitting on the lily pad he became truly bored, and the flies seemed anything but plentiful. Mr. Frog decided that was the day; the day he would jump from his pond in search of the fun and excitement over in the nearby pool.<br /><br />Hop, hop. Hop, hop, hop. <em>Not too much farther</em>, Mr. Frog thought to himself. When Mr. Frog finally arrived at the bright blue shiny pool, he was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">amazed to</span> see no one else there. Not a human in sight. Not even other frogs. Mr. Frog stood at the edge of the pool wondering what he should do next. Then his eyes beheld something glorious: A pool full of all kinds of bugs and insects skimming the water! Even better was that he had hopped upon this feast by himself; he wouldn't have to share with any other frogs! With that, Mr. Frog took the plunge.<br /><br />What Mr. Frog didn't realize is that the chlorine in the pool was causing damage to his skin. The only thing on Mr. Frog's mind were all of those bugs just waiting to be swallowed!<br /><br /><div></div>Soon, however, a human girl spotted Mr. Frog near the edge of the pool and decided save him. She knelt down, scooped Mr. Frog out of the pool, and sat him down on a nearby pool chair. The poor little frog was in shock. He didn't move a muscle for several minutes. He had been removed from the water environment in which he was initially comfortable. There was food and water and recreation. But the human girl knew that he had a much better home in the pond only a few yards away.<br /><br />The human girl knew that as long as Mr. Frog remained in the barely adequate home of the pool, he could never enjoy the long-lasting, nutrient-rich, bug-friendly natural waters that are his true home. He needed a little push to get there, as he certainly wasn't willing to start back on his own. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">After all</span>, who wants to leave a place that you are enjoying for a <strong><em>promise</em></strong> of something grander?<br /><br />Often times we find ourselves to be like Mr. Frog on our Celestial Journey. When we get caught up in the enjoyments of this world, the beauty and attraction of Heaven grows dimmer. At some points, Heaven doesn't even seem all that appealing, and certainly not as much fun. No doubt we are tempted by other luxuries or distractions. We may even think like Mr. Frog; that we are happy enough where we are, swimming around the pool eating the yummy flies.<br /><br />Fortunately, we have a Father in Heaven who knows what is best for us, and like the Human Girl, will scoop us out of this world and remind us that our true home is somewhere much more grand, somewhere we truly belong. For the day when all of our sins will be removed and we see our Savior face-to-face how great will be our Joy. If this remains our focus, the cares around us and our earthly desires will begin to lose their grip.<br /><br />Though our earthly ponds may sometimes have a little "scum" in it, or at times may appear depleted of yummy flies, may we remember our ultimate goal of returning to the place which our Father in Heaven has prepared for us. It is in this that we may find Joy in our Journey.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">Copyright 2008. Emma C. Miller. Any reproduction of this work may not be made without express written consent of the author.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-11808351565902184572008-09-24T08:53:00.000-07:002011-03-13T10:44:53.614-07:00Fall Reflections<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTokwf75DVUE3xDh4K4GOLc8TP9BKB7vuxaKV5bJywX7pzxhaYJGqgii1qtj9h2e32T3mDO68TmrHW74yHlR9D8-GlfFxriaAFrF6HEStQH6Xs0cDPCjUqehr6HkHglTkeUTBPZT4PgY0/s1600-h/sugar_maple_orange_closer.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249632763045417250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="154" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTokwf75DVUE3xDh4K4GOLc8TP9BKB7vuxaKV5bJywX7pzxhaYJGqgii1qtj9h2e32T3mDO68TmrHW74yHlR9D8-GlfFxriaAFrF6HEStQH6Xs0cDPCjUqehr6HkHglTkeUTBPZT4PgY0/s200/sugar_maple_orange_closer.jpg" width="170" border="0" /></a> The sun wakes late. Flowers wilt; the grass is still. <div>Animals gather and store. The wind blows a chill.</div><div>Unpicked fruit whithers and dies; the ground begins a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">freezin</span>'.</div><div>Birds commence their journey south, signifying the Fall season.</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>'<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Tis</span> not death of spring these signs are showing.</div><div>For life is still within us growing.</div><div>Harvest time bestows upon us</div><div>the work of man; his sickles thrust.</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>Fall indicates the breath of life and of new birth.</div><div>Apples and pumpkins and colors of the earth.</div><div>A time of change; A time to pause.</div><div>A time to reflect the greater cause.</div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>As maple trees give up their sap</div><div>and cold winds the earth entraps.</div><div>We snuggle closer; we yearn for warming.</div><div>Rekindling love and new ones forming.</div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>For Fall, like the leaves, shows our hues<br />Of who we are and what we choose</div><div>to be and do and what we'll bestow</div><div>to others who need a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">friendly</span> glow.</div><div></div><br /><div>Fall represents transfiguration<br />of selfishness; obliteration.</div><div>A season of thanks, a season of giving.</div><div>A season of sharing, and a season of living.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><div>COPYRIGHT 2008. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this work may not be made without express written consent of the author. </div></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-14199958695001643382008-09-09T11:46:00.000-07:002008-09-12T23:11:51.439-07:00Don't Be Mean, Charlene!<span style="font-size:85%;">Meanness begats meanness. This story came about because of all the girls out there who can sometimes be soooo mean. The thing about mean girls, is that they sometimes grow up to be mean women. So - here's to all the <em>Silly Jilly's</em> of the world - saving the planet, one <em>Mean Charlene</em> at a time.</span><br />______________________________<br /><br />Silly Jilly loved everything about everything and she loved everything about everyone. Well, almost.<br /><br />Silly Jilly loved to walk her dog. She loved to help around the house. Silly Jilly even loved cleaning her room. Well, almost.<br /><br />Silly Jilly loved to be silly, which is why everyone called her Silly Jilly. And most of all Silly Jilly loved being silly with her friends. Everyone at school was Silly Jilly's friend. Well, almost.<br /><br />Silly Jilly was nice to everyone and wished everyone was nice to each other too. But there was one girl at school that wasn't very nice to the other girls. She had red, unruly hair and freckles and everyone called her Mean Charlene. Well, almost.<br /><br />Silly Jilly tried to be nice to Mean Charlene. She decided that if Mean Charlene were ever mean to her, she would do her best to forgive her.<br /><br />Once Mean Charlene took away Nicki's ball. Another time she pulled Belle's hair. Mean Charlene made fun of Barbie and told her she couldn't be in her secret camper's club anymore. Mean Charlene made lots of girls cry.<br /><br />When Julia fell down and scraped her knee, Mean Charlene laughed at her. When <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Timberly</span> dropped her books in the hall, Mean Charlene kicked them out of her reach. And when Emmy-Lou cried on the first day of school, Mean Charlene called her a baby for the rest of the year.<br /><br />The girls in the class had enough. They were tired of Mean Charlene being so terribly, horribly mean. Even though <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Timberly</span> wanted to get even and kick her in the shins while she wasn't looking, all the girls decided they would start to ignore her. If she talked to them, they would walk on by. If she said something mean, they would pretend not to hear. Even if Mean Charlene wasn't acting mean, the girls decided they would pretend like she no longer existed.<br /><br />Silly Jilly wasn't too sure about this idea. However, she knew it was better than holding her down and kicking Mean Charlene in the shins. So, over the next several days, that is what the girls in the class did. They completely ignored Mean Charlene.<br /><br />Then one day, at recess, Silly Jilly noticed Mean Charlene standing at the back of the playground by herself. She was crying. Silly Jilly looked around the playground and true to their word, every girl was ignoring Mean Charlene. Silly Jilly felt awful inside and decided to find out what could possibly make someone as mean as Charlene cry.<br /><br />She approached Mean Charlene, feeling a little nervous that she might make Mean Charlene more upset.<br /><br />"What are <em><strong>you</strong></em> looking at?" Mean Charlene snidely asked.<br /><br />"Why are you crying?" Silly Jilly questioned.<br /><br />"None of your big fat business," Mean Charlene snarled.<br /><br />"Do you want to play with me?" asked Silly Jilly, doing her best to over look Charlene's meanness.<br /><br />All of a sudden, Charlene stopped crying and looked Silly Jilly in the eye. "<strong><em>You</em></strong> would want to play with<strong><em> me</em></strong>?" she inquired.<br /><br />"Well, yes," Silly Jilly stammered. "On two conditions."<br /><br />"What?" sniffled Charlene.<br /><br />"You have to apologize to all of the other girls and you have to stop being so mean, Charlene."<br /><br />Charlene thought for a moment and then agreed. She slowly walked over to the other girls who were playing on the jungle gym. She told them how sorry she was for all of the mean things she had ever done to them. She apologized for stealing their balls, pushing them around, kicking their books, calling them names, and every other mean thing she ever said or did that she could think of. Belle asked her why she was so mean.<br /><br />"I don't know," replied Charlene. "I guess because I am jealous of all of you."<br /><br />Charlene went on to explain that she was jealous of each of the girls in one way or another. The girls in the class seemed to have better clothes. They were smarter. They could play four-square better and run faster. She was jealous that they each had beautiful, soft, "normal" hair and smooth skin, while she had straw-like b<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">right</span> red hair and freckles all over her face. Charlene didn't think the other girls would like someone like her, so it was just easier to be mean.<br /><br />"Well, we don't know if we like you or not," said Emmy-Lou. "You haven't given us a chance to even get to know you. You've always been so mean."<br /><br />So, from that day forward, Charlene decided she would no longer be mean, the girls decided they would no longer ignore her, and Silly Jilly decided that she would continue bringing peace and happiness to every girl in the class, every girl on the playground, and every girl in the world. Well, almost.<br /><br />The End.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">COPYRIGHT 2008. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-77733861909014629192008-09-07T21:00:00.000-07:002009-02-23T22:12:51.192-08:00Back to the Zoo! (A Counting Book)I wrote this story for LittleDuckling I was pregnant with PrettyPrettyPrincess. Enough of you encouraged me to dig out the little pictures I drew to go along with them. It's just a silly little counting book. Nevertheless, here is the story...again. Enjoy!<br />_______________________________<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLp2OSLXK9sc58TMxsjny0D2LDulo-VDnknS4lGt2L9lu-qoRSc-yjxpxonHDqPry24wVbCuaO3AVzMqOGUz_PyKZPSseTpzof5Dub8SSPayvWSZdogcywvlKY5OmkpWjw0PXsH5QmGkA/s1600-h/story1.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301401952940140178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 313px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLp2OSLXK9sc58TMxsjny0D2LDulo-VDnknS4lGt2L9lu-qoRSc-yjxpxonHDqPry24wVbCuaO3AVzMqOGUz_PyKZPSseTpzof5Dub8SSPayvWSZdogcywvlKY5OmkpWjw0PXsH5QmGkA/s400/story1.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3IfXqzkpVnBelwaXJalZ0WpS6wYhXhgv3nYqXb4IXnkIyIhkH6ktCxshvwg1AS3i92tLu9EcOPsvYMycT5nnyAMy3SH7Ta4-UW1F09TfCzaoIBOdK5UyL3CM33xgzTTO2galJAg-LpHk/s1600-h/story1.gif"></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9zAsr4ow_1gvxU-q0D5pQddLFBnU-EGzURuhIpNsg_rZ8fNxloSVIiCZHD5EtSqPFA5-gixcAkoA-QdkYuXGugIo-fK-AZjmq8gbqzC0osB16dtdjmJjXRw6w3XaWPVRO40M-aKQ11dI/s1600-h/story2.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301401786409512066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 313px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9zAsr4ow_1gvxU-q0D5pQddLFBnU-EGzURuhIpNsg_rZ8fNxloSVIiCZHD5EtSqPFA5-gixcAkoA-QdkYuXGugIo-fK-AZjmq8gbqzC0osB16dtdjmJjXRw6w3XaWPVRO40M-aKQ11dI/s320/story2.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7n3HjDoIiQ_Eqs9MPgEGJG1YOUsC-bPzijWrxPyoCf_5wjBOi3xfH3IiRX8J5-XV2gLwfuz21kvzKV0t-YSxMtxqxphVKZ7wtjmcGr9IPdyAdTFue312Uc4tgArARyMh_8Iijl0i3EL8/s1600-h/story3.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301401782170170690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 319px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7n3HjDoIiQ_Eqs9MPgEGJG1YOUsC-bPzijWrxPyoCf_5wjBOi3xfH3IiRX8J5-XV2gLwfuz21kvzKV0t-YSxMtxqxphVKZ7wtjmcGr9IPdyAdTFue312Uc4tgArARyMh_8Iijl0i3EL8/s320/story3.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7dTUJftaJ9yxdAjqx7q_3oAGopqpKlzEDbkfBhjoTOKSt_deek2xqANJbfrqCmv9jUaCeZd-xKhyphenhyphenZhzERCW0b9Gk1GSjKQZwNnXfZQwQOZQowJoRWwew340Fwpg6tCP-dUew9VGUkLQE/s1600-h/story4.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301401783379920626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 316px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7dTUJftaJ9yxdAjqx7q_3oAGopqpKlzEDbkfBhjoTOKSt_deek2xqANJbfrqCmv9jUaCeZd-xKhyphenhyphenZhzERCW0b9Gk1GSjKQZwNnXfZQwQOZQowJoRWwew340Fwpg6tCP-dUew9VGUkLQE/s320/story4.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkhgliZlIFpK_8f-AyxbcQRflAaFRPTCTDFvgvqnFO-nnfMVUwAxSVjV2t5KK5pjgrRW6FaGnLrJtef-5A44fxwbggDCYbhqBFSr2CmQEW7WmjWOoPAymt_PXlOj1vf4uoiICUHveZXjc/s1600-h/story5.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301401782452690786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 308px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkhgliZlIFpK_8f-AyxbcQRflAaFRPTCTDFvgvqnFO-nnfMVUwAxSVjV2t5KK5pjgrRW6FaGnLrJtef-5A44fxwbggDCYbhqBFSr2CmQEW7WmjWOoPAymt_PXlOj1vf4uoiICUHveZXjc/s320/story5.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2OEC53cJNVARIZhG1g1pA0Cl3XLQCVOfDsvCoIYe_DmUycAuIveRsLMcc3zY_z_W9w5auLRJ_gP_xlFjTJ9eN3ixajzr8w7FdAKZ8nEE78EKAyY0HhgQFYjvDFqwl7_Ui1QSY1ZnpA0/s1600-h/story6.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301401526970847250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 308px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2OEC53cJNVARIZhG1g1pA0Cl3XLQCVOfDsvCoIYe_DmUycAuIveRsLMcc3zY_z_W9w5auLRJ_gP_xlFjTJ9eN3ixajzr8w7FdAKZ8nEE78EKAyY0HhgQFYjvDFqwl7_Ui1QSY1ZnpA0/s320/story6.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqT7N2zwIiNCA0XMZiogryoKGzD7mPsTfnKeeqEnHSQIkIj9DkHTeC9L0N_QXQH3Lqe0i8jHpdtILNjGXzNPLL4XYoBYOOYQz8bJHMpe9hGswNvErtqMHrqOiIBHaTUJkYl26l89FX9Ys/s1600-h/story7.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301401523326626434" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 296px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqT7N2zwIiNCA0XMZiogryoKGzD7mPsTfnKeeqEnHSQIkIj9DkHTeC9L0N_QXQH3Lqe0i8jHpdtILNjGXzNPLL4XYoBYOOYQz8bJHMpe9hGswNvErtqMHrqOiIBHaTUJkYl26l89FX9Ys/s320/story7.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301401520060764722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 306px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZKa48pzxyYkyfQSY-QdbisnaMtglUegN8gudvNEvjB_3RRX316gYp2rkuDfVibXrtnqX7EaimuGgrMauFHWffUezF5JOahKBZfmKgDG8DtA1DmU9OFG33XKUB7GMH3A0WYCse2yHcsHw/s320/story8.gif" border="0" /><br /><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5jhzFnlWfOMyPwAdJs_tIJKEr1J_X04x7TBjsAbNlam-nsh6h7qr08ATU86J0DEt_6DvPjdUUAA5T012liAKD0wuZP-wMMnb67jCclh1u7Iyr8WRXVxJQLKQeJ_9_Sq6oAzOztQcGO-k/s1600-h/story9.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301401515158486850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 310px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5jhzFnlWfOMyPwAdJs_tIJKEr1J_X04x7TBjsAbNlam-nsh6h7qr08ATU86J0DEt_6DvPjdUUAA5T012liAKD0wuZP-wMMnb67jCclh1u7Iyr8WRXVxJQLKQeJ_9_Sq6oAzOztQcGO-k/s320/story9.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKL_MQrK17pSpkCogfSOBj49ncByBqTbTJXzqgzU3TbTsvPEoQ9IZvx1C4WNtCmmMvZjcNlBbQKiY6Xa7be885SqKiAKYX76YqbhjchgFYJp0UeIKEW7SJ4LKF4ypnx7kWwRWj70H78Ws/s1600-h/story10.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301401516616063970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 305px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKL_MQrK17pSpkCogfSOBj49ncByBqTbTJXzqgzU3TbTsvPEoQ9IZvx1C4WNtCmmMvZjcNlBbQKiY6Xa7be885SqKiAKYX76YqbhjchgFYJp0UeIKEW7SJ4LKF4ypnx7kWwRWj70H78Ws/s320/story10.gif" border="0" /></a> <div><p><span style="font-size:85%;">COPYRIGHT 2000. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.<br /></span></p></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-45356627555531869662008-09-07T15:40:00.000-07:002008-09-07T16:25:38.569-07:00Polly Pinkerton and Her Blankie<em><span style="font-size:85%;">* This story was written for Keenan, before moving away from his little best friend, Evan. They were both 2 years old.</span></em><br />____________________<br /><br />Polly Pinkerton was a little girl<br />with bright green eyes and golden curls.<br />Her family moved next door one week,<br />which excited me, for you see<br />I was the only girl on the block;<br />with no one to play with or to talk.<br /><br />I invited her to come play with me<br />and when she came she brought her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">blankie</span>.<br />In fact wherever we went she tagged it along,<br />whether playing with dolls or singing silly songs.<br />Being six I thought she was a little old<br />to be toting a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">blankie</span> in her hold.<br /><br />Other kids at school made fun of me<br />for playing with the with girl and her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">blankie</span>.<br />Once a boy snatched it up, and Polly began to cry.<br />I helped her get it back, but I had to know why-<br />Why did she drag around that hideous thing<br />to the yard or the park, or swinging on swings?<br /><br />When I asked Polly the question her eyes filled with tears.<br />She said, "I've had since I was a baby. It helps calms my fears.<br />I know I'm too old to carry this around.<br />I must find a way to lay this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">blankie</span> down.<br />Will you help me get rid of if for good?" Polly asked.<br />Of course I said <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">yes</span> though it would be no easy task.<br /><br />From that day forward, when Polly and I played<br />I tried to help her forget the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">blankie</span> she put away.<br />And if she started feeling lonely or down or afraid,<br />We would sing happy songs, recite poems or pray.<br />It worked! It worked! She didn't need it anymore.<br />Now we could do the things we haven't done before.<br /><br />Riding bikes, swimming, making angels in the sand.<br />Polly Pinkerton simply became my best friend.<br />Then one afternoon my mother gave me bad news.<br />My dad got a new job and we would have to move.<br />As we <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">packed</span> the last box and loaded up the van,<br />My eyes filled with tears and down my cheeks they ran.<br /><br />I looked over at Polly's house to wave good-bye<br />when she called, "Hang on! I left something inside!"<br />She came out with a box wrapped in a pink bow<br />and said, "Open it now before you go!<br />I'm giving you this gift so you'll never forget me."<br />And I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">opened</span> the box to find her beautiful <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">blankie</span>.<br /><br />The End.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">COPYRIGHT 1996. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-26362370808216137202008-09-07T09:14:00.000-07:002018-01-05T14:12:26.369-08:00Jenna Jing Loved to SingJenna <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Jing</span> Loved to Sing<br />
at day or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">night</span> about anything.<br />
She'd wake up and jump out of bed,<br />
singing good morning to her brother Fred.<br />
<br />
For breakfast she would sing her melody<br />
for whole wheat toast and strawberry jelly.<br />
At the dinner table she would bellow,<br />
"Will someone please pass me the JELL-O?"<br />
<br />
Wherever Jenna <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Jing</span> was at<br />
she preferred to sing rather than chat.<br />
She sang to her friends on the playground;<br />
to neighbors and store clerks all around.<br />
<br />
At first they thought it was quite cute.<br />
They said she sounded just like a flute.<br />
But day after day of Jenna's singing<br />
left some folks with their ears ringing.<br />
<br />
They began to cringe as she went by.<br />
They'd roll their eyes and give a sigh.<br />
Nonetheless, Jenna sang out-<br />
getting louder and louder without a doubt.<br />
<br />
Then one day Jenna's voice got worse.<br />
She could barely sing; her throat was hoarse.<br />
Her mom took her to see Dr. Titus.<br />
He said, "Jenna's got Laryngitis."<br />
<br />
"What is that?" Jenna's mom inquired.<br />
The doctor said, "Her voice got tired."<br />
For two whole weeks Jenna's voice was out.<br />
She couldn't whisper, talk, sing or shout.<br />
<br />
The neighborhood was very quiet.<br />
The people were happy. They couldn't deny it.<br />
So Jenna just sat at home.<br />
With no way to sing, she felt alone.<br />
<br />
Near the end of the two weeks the townspeople grew bored.<br />
Where was that voice they once adored?<br />
In spite of the quiet they enjoyed so much,<br />
they missed Jenna's singing just a touch.<br />
<br />
Then Jenna's voice finally came to.<br />
She skipped through the park singing, "Loo-loo-loo."<br />
Her friends came to play. The townspeople smiled.<br />
They were glad to hear the songs they hadn't heard in a while.<br />
<br />
They all reached a decision, even Jenna <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Jing</span>.<br />
As long as it wasn't too much, they liked to hear her sing.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tqDRXmmBB7Y/SMOxZ2zv9iI/AAAAAAAAAVI/E9JJ_fZXEKc/s1600-h/COPYRIGHT_585.gif"></a><span style="font-size: 85%;">Copyright 2000. Emma C Miller. Any reproduction of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2980586722920162761.post-76661769539770176802008-09-07T03:38:00.000-07:002009-01-06T21:38:03.697-08:00The Endless Road in JasperAnne Bailey was an established writer. Yet she sat motionless in the rocking chair which was tucked in the corner of the hospital room. The notebook in her lap was filled with endless pages that seemed to swallow her whole; devouring her one page at a time. What would she write? What would she say? How could she write? <em>This is Jasper, after all. My son Jasper, and he’s dying.</em><br /><br />Anne was oblivious to the fact that as she sat in the chair, she rocked to the beeping sounds of the heart monitor. That rhythm was one of comfort, representing life in the little eight year-old body of Jasper Brennan.<br /><br />Anne will never forget that day only three months earlier. Jasper was at school and told his teacher he felt dizzy and that his head hurt. Ms. Johnson, noticing that he was walking a little off-balance, called Anne to come and pick him up. Anne too, noticed his imbalance. She decided to call Dr. Peterson, who had been the family’s doctor since moving to Peaks Cove six years earlier. Peaks Cove is a little island off the coast of Portland, Maine and only two doctors reside there; Dr. Rosemary Elliot, the OB/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">GYN</span></span> and Dr. Philip Peterson the family practitioner.<br /><br />Initially Dr. Peterson suspected a simple inner ear infection. However, upon further examination, the symptoms <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">didn</span></span>’t manifest an ear infection at all. Anne could see the worry in Dr. Peterson’s brow. He referred her to Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Lunford</span></span> at Maine Medical Center. Anne felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise as Dr. Peterson made the necessary calls and arranged for the pair to be seen at once. He advised her to pack an overnight bag and to take the next ferry into Portland.<br /><br />Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Lunford</span></span> was very cordial, though not overly friendly. Anne suspected most specialists were like that. Their work was important to them. She could sense Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Lunford</span></span>’s dedication, and that pleased her. Jasper underwent a CAT Scan, and it seemed like an eternity before they were all back in the little blue exam room.<br /><br />“There is a growth,” Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Lunford</span></span> explained.<br /><br />“A growth?” Anne struggled to understand.<br /><br />“I want you to take Jasper to Dartmouth-Hitchcock,” Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Lunford</span></span> continued. “You need to go today.”<br /><br />“That’s almost a three-hour drive,” Anne muttered, disbelieving her ears.<br /><br />“If you leave now, you’ll miss rush-hour traffic.” With that he handed her a card with the name of some world-class doctor scrawled on it. “I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">ve</span></span> already called. They are expecting you.”<br /><br />Anne took the card from Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Lunford</span></span>’s hand. <em>What is happening? What does this mean? They are expecting us?</em> She looked over at Jasper. He was a small-framed, slightly scrawny child. He was little. He was young. Too young. <em>Too young to be sick,</em> Anne told herself.<br /><br />Nonetheless doing as directed, stopping only once for gas, Anne drove straight into New Hampshire in search of this world-renowned specialist, Dr. Reena <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Sharma</span></span>. Anne remembers the exact moment it happened. As she heard the words escape Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Sharma</span></span>’s lips, she <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">couldn</span></span>’t help but fixate her gaze at the clock hanging on the wall behind her. 8:58 pm. “I am so very sorry, but your son has a brain tumor…”<br /><br />The room began to spin. The air grew thick and hot around her. Her throat closed up, and Anne could have sworn her heart even stopped beating, if only for a moment. The combination of fear, shock and pain was too much to bear.<br /><br />Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Sharma</span></span> handed Anne a box of tissues, and gave her a moment to take it all in, though in reality it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">isn</span></span>’t any sort of news that anyone can “take in”. It’s something that’s just sort of handed to you whether you want it or not. And rejecting it will not make it go away. Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Sharma</span></span> said that Jasper had a terminal brain stem tumor. He was given a life expectancy of three weeks to three months. Approximately 100 children each year die from this and it is 100 percent fatal. There is no treatment. Neither radiation nor chemotherapy will save him. Instead, Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Sharma</span></span> informed her, they should focus on quality of life, and on providing the best care and comfort for little Jasper.<br /><br />Turning her thoughts back to the notebook resting in her hands, Anne wished the three months <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">wasn</span></span>’t near a close. She wished that somehow she could stop the ticking of time. Anne needed to make the impending funeral arrangements for her little guy. She also intended to jot down some thoughts for his obituary. But she could not bring herself to write. Writing it down somehow made it more real, like sealing the deal to a contract. As Anne looked down at the paper, tears began to spill. Anne wished Rory were here. He’d know what to say, how to comfort her. She missed her husband Rory Brennan. Anne decided to write the things she remembered about Rory. It would made her feel better.<br /><br />Anne would have loved to been able to attend college at Chapel Hill, Berkley or Columbia. But relying on her family’s menial income, Anne was simply grateful to attend Ball State back home in Indiana. Ball State did, after all, have one of the best undergraduate journalism programs out there.<br /><br />Anne wanted to write articles, essays and short stories for magazines and journals; perhaps even a book one day. She wanted to write about the biggest and the best news not only locally or nationally, but also world-wide. She wanted to write about amazing people. She wanted to write about the things tucked away in her imagination and locked up in her heart. She wanted to be known for her works and for her words.<br /><br />Her first break came near the end of graduation. One of her professors had announced that he had been selected to spend some time in New Zealand, covering what would be the largest 12-hour mountain bike event in the world, the<em> Day-Night Thriller</em>. He would be allowed to bring along one other “staff-writer”, and therefore would be selecting one of his senior students.<br /><br />Anne <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">didn</span></span>’t know anything about mountain biking or New Zealand. And this definitely <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">wasn</span></span>’t her dream of writing for “The New Yorker”. Nevertheless, Anne knew that this opportunity would be paramount in opening doors for her as an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">un</span></span>-known in the literary world. Anne researched anything and everything about the sport, the event, and the country. She submitted her essay and waited with baited breath. She only had to wait 48 hours before the professor announced her as the winner.<br /><br />“Yours <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">wasn</span></span>’t the best essay on the sport, you know,” Professor Wright told Anne afterwards.<br /><br />“I know,” Anne answered a bit sheepishly.<br /><br />“You know little about mountain biking,” he continued. “That is evident in your lack of depth.”<br /><br />“Yes sir.”<br /><br />“But you have heart. Your words hold a sense of passion; a sense of honesty. I like that.” Then Professor Wright chuckled. “Even made me want to go and dust off my bike.”<br /><br />Anne spent the week after graduation in New Zealand, writing for “Cycle World” about the race, the athletes and their stories. Covering that event gave her the credentials she needed to begin free-lance writing for other various outdoor sports magazines. It landed her an invitation to cover <em>The Grand Tree</em>, which is a series of 26 trail-running races. “Trail Runner” made her quite the offer to cover the New England racing circuit. And it was that race that earned her the gig of writing for “Canadian Biker”, covering a huge motorcycle race in Alberta, Canada.<br /><br />Anne had decided that this trip to Canada would be her last coverage of sporting events. She knew she had started to make a name for herself in the short year since graduation. However, it was only in the world of sports. Anne wanted more, and she knew that meant not being stigmatized in just one field.<br /><br />Anne made the flight into Alberta just fine and after spending the afternoon checking into her cabin and freshening up, she grabbed her messenger bag and headed off to the main lodge where an open house for the racers was being held. She planned to spend the evening interviewing a few of them, following up on those projected to be winners.<br /><br />As Anne made her way through the room, introducing herself to the varying motorists, she noticed a lone man near the back of the lodge. He was standing in front of a huge picture window. He was in his own world, distant from the crowd, looking out into the national forest. <em>Where are his thoughts taking him? Tomorrow’s race? A family he left behind?</em> Anne made her way across the room in search of the answers to those questions.<br /><br />“Anne Bailey with ‘Canadian Biker’,” Anne said, making introductions.<br /><br />“<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Isn</span></span>’t she beautiful?” The man asked, not breaking his gaze from the window.<br /><br />“I’m sorry?” questioned Anne, noticing his sexy Irish accent.<br /><br />“Mother Nature,” he answered. “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Isn</span></span>’t she beautiful?”<br /><br />“Oh yes. Yes, she is,” replied Anne.<br /><br />With that, the man chuckled and turned to face her. She could not help but notice his wavy dark hair, strong jaw line and ice-blue eyes. They seemed to penetrate her as he spoke.<br /><br />“Rory Brennan,” he said while offering up his hand. Their handshake was the beginning of a conversation that lasted almost into the wee hours of the morning.<br /><br />Anne remembered feeling guilty for keeping him up so late the night before a race. She felt even guiltier for only having spoken to one participant. But she found his love for the sport fascinating. Rory had explained to her how this race was his favorite each year. It is what he called True Road Racing, where they close off the road to the public instead of racing on a track. He described the feeling of the wind through his hair and taking the fresh air into his lungs. He described the scenery as a masterpiece of art. He told her there was nothing more real, more natural, nor more exhilarating than riding in the open air and through the beautiful mountains of Jasper National Park. The view seemed to go on forever, he told her. It was a road he would love to ride forever; the endless road in Jasper.<br /><br />Anne knew that was the very moment she fell in love with Rory Brennan. What she <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">didn</span></span>’t know is that he would go on to win that race the next day, and that she had more than enough material to satisfy “Canadian Biker” for a feature story of one of the best riders in the world.<br /><br />Anne and Rory began their relationship in a bit of a whirlwind, as he continued to travel the world riding, and she writing. But eventually winter came and the racing season ended. Anne began to look for opportunities where she could stay in one place to write. They were married almost a year later and he moved from his home in Ireland to the states. She only kept the name of Bailey for her career. Their first year of marriage was one that Anne could only describe as a fairytale. They were in love and they were happy. He made her laugh, and she loved his outlook on life. Anne snagged several free-lance opportunities for nationally acclaimed magazines and journals.<br /><br />Soon, Anne became pregnant. They were excited. Life seemed so perfect. She thought about the day her little guy was born. Dark hair and beautiful blue eyes, just like his father. Anne remembered the tears that welled up in Rory’s eyes as he first looked at his baby. It was a sight that Anne would never forget. She found the purest joy in the love of a father. Rory wanted to name him Jasper after his grandfather, as well as the place where they first met. Anne agreed that the name was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">apropos</span>.<br /><br />Anne’s thoughts were brought back into reality, as she noticed the shifting in Jasper’s breathing. It began to sound a bit more shallow. He could no longer eat or talk, or barely keep his eyes open. Anne did not want to face this tragedy alone, and yet it was not the first tragedy she had been dealt.<br /><br />Anne’s thoughts returned to that of Rory Brennan and the motorcycle accident that would claim his life instantly. It was during a race in the hills of South Western Michigan. No one really knows what happened. Perhaps Rory swerved to miss a squirrel or something. Nevertheless, he lost control of the bike, rolling several times, and then dragged for several yards before finally landing in a ditch. In an instant, Rory was gone. Now Anne was about to encounter the second hardest thing in her life. And in many ways, she contemplated, this trial seemed harder.<br /><br />Anne decided that the unexpected death of her husband, though more shocking, seemed almost easier than the long impending death of her little boy. Anne’s writing began to easily transition from Rory to Jasper.<br /><br /><em>A mother should never have to bury a child</em>. <em>And it’s the feeling of helplessness that makes it so much worse. You know this horrible thing is going to happen, but there is nothing that can be done to stop it. You’re the mother, and you can’t do anything. You just have to sit by and watch.</em><br /><br />Anne began to take comfort in venting on paper. The pen took over and began to spell out her thoughts. Anne continued in this pattern over the next few days. It helped her pass away the time, as she was afraid to go to sleep each night. Once her feelings were unleashed on paper, she could not stop writing.<br /><br /><em>I can’t</em> <em>work. I can’t leave the room. I can’t sleep. I fear that if I leave him he will go and I will have missed saying good-bye. I will have missed the last moment to touch his sweet little face, or run my fingers through his soft brown locks, or look into his innocent blue eyes, or kiss him farewell.</em><br /><br />Anne had discussed with Jasper on several occasions that he was sick and that he would leave this earth and return to live with God and the angels soon. She knew that Jasper was old enough to know what death was. “I’m going home to daddy too,” Jasper reminded her one afternoon. That realization brought Anne to tears. And yet, she suddenly began to feel comfort in Rory’s death; knowing that he was already on the other side to greet their baby with open arms and take care of him.<br /><br />Since the day Anne first found out about the brain tumor, she made lists. Lists of things to do. Lists of things she wanted to tell him. Lists of his favorite foods. There was nothing she could do to stop this monster from taking over her baby’s body, but she could make lists.<br /><br />Her favorite list was the list of things Jasper wanted to do. After returning home from Dartmouth-Hitchcock, the race against time began. She attempted to cross at least one thing off his list per day, as she wanted to do most of it before he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">wouldn</span></span>’t be able to walk or talk anymore; before he would need watch-care.<br /><br />As they accomplished the activities, Anne documented their time with her camera and of course her pen. His scrapbook nearly tripled from the time he was a newborn. They went to a baseball game, collected shells on the beach, learned to Hula Hoop, attended concerts in the park, tried skateboarding, and even flew to New York City to see the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. They tried new restaurants and had a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">campout</span></span>, even though it was in the middle of the living room floor.<br /><br />It was through completing this list that Anne truly began to see the heart of her little boy. He was sick. He did not feel well. But he never wanted to stop. “Keep going,” he insisted at the zoo when Anne tried to stop and let him rest. He accomplished everything on his list with a smile on his face. In this way he was just like his father.<br /><br />Anne continued to write and had easily begin to fill those pages that once seemed untouchable.<br /><br /><em>It is the knowledge that my son lived a happy life that makes my bosom swell. It is the knowledge that he knows how much I love him that eases my aching heart. It is the knowledge that I will be with him and his father again one day that will get me through the next hour, the next day, and the rest of my life. Jasper loved life, even in the face of death. It will be this knowledge that will allow Jasper to live on in my heart forever. For Jasper’s love of people and his love for life <span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>is </strong></span>his endless road.</em><br /><br />The End.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tqDRXmmBB7Y/SMOxZ2zv9iI/AAAAAAAAAVI/E9JJ_fZXEKc/s1600-h/COPYRIGHT_585.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243229448956802594" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 18px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 18px" height="79" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tqDRXmmBB7Y/SMOxZ2zv9iI/AAAAAAAAAVI/E9JJ_fZXEKc/s200/COPYRIGHT_585.gif" width="92" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:78%;">2008. Emma C Miller. Any <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">reproduction</span> of this story may not be made without express written consent of the author.</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3