Ah-I woke up today and the sun was shining brightly and warm. In fact, today it was a balmy 88 degrees. The flowers are in full bloom and the trees have all fluffed out with their leaves. The birds are singing and raising their young. It couldn't get any better than this.
I went straight to editing and editing and polishing another novel. Still no interest in my previous one. Oh-well. That's life. I shall keep trying and trying and see where it leads. Nothing ventured; nothing gained. Of course, someone else might say that nothing ventured brings no pain, but where would the fun be in that?
We shall see. What a beautiful sunset ended the day. Not much else to say while I'm trying to write and edit.
Take care and we'll speak soon. Cheers and have a great day! :) S.J.

Never underestimate the power of your presence, of your ability or your skills. You are an individual of all your own making. Cherish it!!

Words of wisdom: Life is full of changes; full of surprises. Take it all in stride & don't be afraid to rearrange them.-Dr. F.S.

Always remember you are braver than you believe; stronger than you seem & smarter than you think.

This story was long ago published in a number of publications I can't recall....enjoy! I'd love to hear your comments; good or bad. Cheers!! :)

 

                                                                  THE RED HOUSE

 

A Short Story by

S.J. Francis

 

 

 

The women gathered in the upstairs sitting room:  Twelve of them and one man.  Rich, spoiled, catty, beautiful, and he tall, dark and handsome and wealthy.  All were without respect for anyone or anything.  Making fun of things and people they knew nothing about.

     The old cathouse was no exception.  Psychics were brought in to feel out the house and find the lost spirits.  All done just so the girls could have fun.

     A classic beauty with delicate features, Sarah hated it.  “And you, Miss Bible Thumper,” She yelled at the eldest woman present, the leader of the pack and impeccable in every way right up to her perfect nose and unblemished skin.  “You should know better than to antagonize the dead.”

     The buxom blonde was not to be intimidated by the new girl.  Everyone knew that Sarah was not raised in their town.  She was from Colorado and all they knew about there was cattle.  “You should talk. Why are you here?”

     “To be with my niece.  No other reason.” Sarah felt sorry for the lonely spirits who were said to wander aimlessly about the house.  For some strange reason that she couldn’t fathom she felt a strong desire to somehow protect them.

     The college women joked in their enjoyment of making fun of the dead.   The psychics located the lost souls in a closet down the hall and joined in the laughter and made fun with sex noises. 

     Sarah had enough, got up and aimed to stop them.

     “So,” Rich stood up and announced in his southern drawl, aiming to put an end to a catfight before one could start.  “Who’s with me this weekend?  We’ll pop the top off this old place.” When he spoke the women couldn’t help but listen.  He was gorgeous and single and they all wanted the playboy and practically drooled all over themselves.   

     But no one wanted him more than Sarah did.  She loved him.  It was a deep intense yearning she felt.  She somehow knew they belonged together.  It was fate.

     Everyone was in for the party but Sarah.  She stormed out of the room, down the stairs and slammed the old crumbling door behind her without a glance back.  Rick was concerned and over the cackling of the other women, he ran after her.

     Across the railroad tracks and down toward Main Street with a safe distance between the house and her, she stopped and turned to face it.  It looked so sad to her somehow and she felt strange for feeling empathy for an old abandoned building, but so many had died there that she couldn’t help but feel sorrow toward it.

     A tear fell from her eye and she felt an ache in her heart for those who had perished so long ago.  Slowly she moved to wipe her face when she noticed the slight tremble of her hand.  Why should I cry for an old house? 

     Rick was beside her now.  His deep blue eyes hid pain and sorrow, but also held a glint of mischievousness she had come to appreciate.  He was the silence before the storm.  The storm being her pretentious friends.  At least he wasn’t serious and arrogance wasn’t his way, though, how startling gorgeous he was, he should have been.  He was intelligent, kind and caring, and she found it difficult to understand why he was involved in such an idiotic game.

     “Don’t be angry with them.  They’re only having fun.”  He said flashing his pearly whites.

     “You should know better. They all should. You know what happened to the women in that house.  It was awful.  How can you be so cruel?” she admonished, her anger pushing through though not particularly at him.

     She stared at the fire-scarred remnants of a once beautiful, but faded Victorian house now boarded up and discarded.  Rumor was that after the fire it was painted bright red by the townspeople in order to curse it. The Red House.

     He averted her gaze and scraped his cowboy boots along the street. “Yeah so.”

     “Those women were raped and tortured then burned alive.  And this town called it justice.”  The history incensed her.

     He placed his hands in the back pocket of his jeans determined not to let the past get to him.  He couldn’t. He had a job to do.  A promise to fulfill and he aimed to keep it.  He hated to deceive Sarah but it was all part of the plan.  “They’re dead now.” He corrected.  “So what’s the harm?  These girls are rich.  Their daddies have more money than God.” 

     “You’re messing with things you shouldn’t.”  And she just knew that nothing good would come of it.  Somehow she felt that bloodshed and horror would return-all because of that blasted house.

     “You coming.” He asked hoping fervently that she would.  She had to.

     “If my niece does.”  Just a few years apart in age, her niece was one of the spoiled ones and Sarah did not approve of her participation but she would protect her from harm if need be. Damn fool girl.

     “She seems pretty interested.”

     Led about by the nose by a bunch of prissies was what her niece was.  Sarah nodded.

     “We’ll see you then.” He told her as he moved in to kiss her gently on the cheek.

     She grasped his arm and held him desperate for more than he would give.  “Rick.” Her eyes pleaded.

     “I’m sorry honey. Nothings changed.” He told her softly-apologetically.

     “Why do you have to be gay anyway?” It perplexed her.  He could have any woman he wanted and instead he liked men and the thought of it repulsed her.

     “Just am.  Can’t explain it.” He stepped back. “See you Friday night. Dress the period.” And down the road he went to return home.

     Dress the period meant clothes circa early 19^th century.  One hundred years past: The days of hoop skirts, frills and lace and not exactly her cup of tea.  But for Rick she would relent.

     She waited for a moment and just as she was about to turn, she saw his red Ferrari pull out from a side street and as it sped by he waved and beeped his horn at her.  She waved back and smiled sorry that he left so soon.  Friday.  Three days away.  Should she go or not?  She sensed trouble brewing and had to attend if for nothing else to keep her niece safe.

 

*****

     Come Friday evening found all twelve girls in the old creaky house and Rick was the ecstatic host.  Help was hired and present, some seen and some not and sound effects were added to liven the mood of the gloomy old house.  Rick had friends hide in the dark corners and the basement of the house, set up CD machines then leave.  He knew what he was doing and needed no help after that.

     The prima donnas brought dates: their college sweethearts.  The eerie sounds and screams of special effects filled the house and permeated the walls and they all couldn’t help laughing at the sordidness of it all.  If only their parents knew what they were doing, they’d all be in trouble for sure.  The older folks hated the red house. The whole town did and with it the memories that festered there. Hated it with an intense passion but the young ones, the college students that visited it tonight found it a haven and a great place to make out.

     Sarah’s limousine arrived at the tracks and slowly she got out and hesitantly she walked up to the front door.  When she knocked she felt an eerie cold surround her then shoot through her and tried to ignore it.  Sarah was a sensible soul and unlike the other girls that night she did not believe in ghosts.

     Mrs. Ingram, the elderly village librarian answered the door.

     “I’m surprised to find you here.” Sarah said in a startled voice.

     The librarian was aloof but polite. “I’m always willing to help out with a bit of history.”  And history was sure to repeat itself tonight; she wanted to say but bided her time.  Sarah would know things soon enough.

     Sarah entered the cold dark hall.  Laughter was heard throughout.  Catcalls were also heard and she wandered about determined not to get caught up in the stupidity.  Something didn’t feel right to her.  Her hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. 

     She finally found her half cousin related by marriage kissing her date in a dark corner. “Where’s Kelly?” she inquired about her niece.

     “She’s not coming.” Sapphire, the debutante responded matter-of-factly.  There was no love lost between the two women but Sarah tried her best, as always to be civil for family’s sake.

     “I don’t understand.” Kelly had been so intrigued and so adamant when Sarah had begged her not to go.

     “I told her not to come back.  She’s such a baby.”  And with that the younger woman moved to leave.

     “You had no right.” Sarah snapped. “She’s my niece.” And the years of built up tension in the family overwhelmed her and she slapped Sapphire in reflex.

     Sapphire returned the anger in turn to which Sarah responded by shoving her forcefully to the ground and was only halted by the intervention of the powerful butler.

     “Ladies. Please.”

     Against his bulk they backed down.  Embarrassed, Sarah backed up into an alcove and down a chute she fell and landed in the basement.  Terrified of the dark, she shot to her feet and ran up the stairs toward the speck of what little light she saw shining from beneath the cellar door.

     It was eleven fifty: ten minutes to twelve.  The couples in her view looked at her, their flesh decimated, their clothes torn and she thought she was dreaming and shut her eyes tightly and shook her head. When she opened her eyes they were gone from her sight but not from the house.

     They waited for this night.  At midnight they would return. And all would be set right.

     Sarah ran to the front door. “Where’s Mister Rick?” She asked a maid who was leaving with Mrs. Ingram and the butler.

     “Out around back.” The elderly lady replied.

     “You’re not staying.” Sarah asked startled by it all.

     “We were just here for the preparations.  No need to stay.” The butler told her as they exited the front door and headed across to their cars and she didn’t notice them waiting.

     She didn’t know what to make of any of it and leaned against the front door for support then slowly closed it behind her as she made her way through the centuries old brush and found Rick sneaking into a broken basement window.

     “Don’t go down there.” She grabbed his arm desperate to stop him but not knowing why the feeling of terror was so strong in her throat.

     “Why aren’t you inside?”  She should be.  To fully experience what happened she had to be but no matter.  She’d learn the truth soon enough.  It was almost time.

     “Sapphire told Kelly to stay away and I don’t feel right about this.  There’s something wrong here Rick.”

     He wanted to tell her everything but he couldn’t.  It wasn’t time yet.  “It’s just a house.” He assured her.

     “Don’t go in.” She ordered.

     He grinned to reassure her. “I’ll always love you Sarah.”  More than you could ever know.

     “Say you’ll be back and we’ll be together.  Like before.  Like a brother and sister.”

     “Okay.” He relented. “I promise.”

     She grabbed his arm tightly. “No!” she scolded. “Say it like you mean it.”

     The old grandfather clock inside the grand hallway struck midnight. One chime. He grinned at her and his eyes turned terribly dark and for an instant she saw something evil.  It was cold, dark and forbidding.  Then his eyes warmed up and she sensed a familiarity that she never felt before. 

     “Promise.” She repeated.

     “I promise.”  Then he disappeared through the window. 

     She peered in.  It was dark but there was nothing wrong that she could see.  Satisfied he was safe; she glanced over her shoulder.  The librarian and servants watched and waited from their cars.

     The grandfather clock inside the house chimed a second time.

     She stood up then stepped back to look at the house and thought how beautiful it must have been at one time.  What a grand old house.

     Three times she heard the chimes then she turned away. 

     Midnight.  Then it happened.  Screams-blood curdling.  Yells from Rick.  Crackling.  She glanced toward the servants and without a beat they slowly vanished before her eyes as they waved at her.

     When she turned back, the house was engulfed in flames. 

     In the basement window she could see Rick being groped by the dead couple she had seen earlier.  He screamed and tried to get out through the window, but the scarred pairs of hands held onto him and wouldn’t let go.

     She rushed to help him but a wrinkled hand shoved her away and slammed shut the window.  She saw Rick’s terrified face.  She watched the lifeless faces as they pulled him down.

     A hand pulled her back across the tracks and to the safety of the other side as she watched the girls-friends- and their dates scream and try to escape from the many windows but couldn’t get out.  The dead held onto them.

     Outside below in front of the old house were the ghosts of the townspeople who had gathered at the house with torches and had watched it burn with smug satisfaction so many years before.

     She watched in horror as the house was burned to the ground and then all was gone.  Not a sound was heard and not a trace of the old house was left.  She couldn’t even hear the sound of her own heart.

     Kelly was behind her now and took her hand into hers and Sarah nearly died from the fright. “What happened?” A perplexed aunt asked of her niece.

     Kelly’s voice was strained into a gentle whisper and her eyes were vacant. “They’re all at peace now.” 

     “I don’t understand.”

     Kelly lifted a thin finger and pointed to the back yard of the house then guided her toward it.  Sarah shook her head and fear gripped her throat.

     “Don’t be afraid child,”  Mrs. Ingram stated.

     When Sarah turned Kelly was gone and she began to tremble uncontrollably and her hands went cold and clammy but the librarian took her hand and led her over to the ashes. 

     It was a small patch of greenery.  Small rocks were used as grave markers.  One large one stood in the center and Sarah was led to it and eyed it with bemusement.

     Kelly Grant: Gentle soul and beloved mother.  Her life cut down too short the marker said.

     “She was your mother child,” The librarian told her.  “She was the Madam of this house.”

     Sarah eyed her and shook her head in disbelief, but sensed that the words were true. 

     Mrs. Ingram nodded and spoke.  “She loved you more than life itself.  She came back to protect you.  You have no niece, Sarah.  No family to speak of.  Sapphire wasn’t blood, but she killed your father for his money.”

     Sarah felt a loss surround her as the librarian went on, “Her mother was married to your father.”  She squeezed Sarah’s hand and faced the empty spot of ground. “Your father came here often, as so many men in the town did.  He fell in love with your mother and you were born.”

     Mrs. Ingram faced her and her eyes were gentle and opened to her soul.  “They were going to be married once the divorce was granted, but his wife wouldn’t allow it.”  Her words were full of pain and deep loss as she remembered her best friend’s death. 

     “Especially when she learned of your existence.  She grew enraged, rallied the townspeople into a fury and burned the house down.”  Her voice lost its emotion and her eyes turned cold.  “They never made it out of the house.”

     Her voice made shivers run up and down Sarah’s spine but she had to know, “But… my friends… why?”

     “Descendants of the townspeople:  Every last one of them.  It was such a long time; Your mother rests now.”

     “And Rick?” she couldn’t bear of her life without him.  They had been friends for so long.  Or were they?

     The librarian faced her with a glint of joy and her eyes warmed up, “He was your brother.”

     Sarah stepped back in horror. “No.”  It wasn’t true.  It couldn’t be not when she felt such strong feelings toward him.

     Mrs. Ingram nodded. “That was the connection you felt.”

     “But why kill him?”  It made no sense.

     “Hey sis. Whooee!” He walked out of the ashes wiping his hands on his jeans and there wasn’t a mark on him.  “Some shin dig, huh?”

     Sarah was stunned into silence.

     “You tell her?” he asked the older woman.

     He extended his hand.  “Mom and your dad wanted it this way.” Rick loved the older man and admired him,  respected him like he did no other.  A fatherless boy himself at one time, he took Rick into his heart as his own son.

     This was all too much.   Her eyes played tricks with her.  “No. You’re dead. I saw it.”

     “It’s time to go home.” He took her hand into his.

     “Huh? What?”  She shook her head in objection.  What was he talking about?  Home? Where?  In the ashes?  If what was said was true that was all that was left.

     He placed his hands around hers and pulled her toward him.  “Neither one of us survived the fire that night.  We had to come back and set things straight.”

     “No.” she shook her head wildly. “No.”

     He took her face into his hands and held her tight.  His eyes revealed to her the painful truth and still she couldn’t believe. “You’re dead, Sarah.  You have to go home now.  We all do.”

     She pulled from him and stepped back in shock.  She eyed herself, her hands and touched her face then brought her hands up across her chest.  The absence of a heart beat confirmed it all.  She glanced up and saw the couple behind him, silently waiting, but didn’t recognize them.

     “You grew up here but you can’t stay,” Rick told her stepping toward her.

     Kelly released her husband’s hand and stepped forward with outstretched arms.

     “Come home, darling.”

     And Sarah did.

 

 

 

THE END

Happy Thursday! One more day to go and it is Happy Friday and Have a great weekend time!

Allow me to offer you these words of wisdom and Have a happy day! :)

LAUGH WHEN YOU CAN, APOLOGIZE WHEN YOU SHOULD, AND LET GO OF WHAT YOU CAN’T CHANGE.

KISS SLOWLY, FORGIVE QUICKLY, PLAY HARD, TAKE CHANCES, GIVE EVERYTHING, AND HAVE NO

REGRETS. LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO BE ANYTHING BUT HAPPY.

Happy Friday!!!  Have a great weekend! And for writers everywhere: Keep writing!!!

And here is some words of wisdom in a poem by Rosemary DePaolis that says it best.

Goals are dreams and wishes that are not easily reached.
You have to work hard to obtain them, never knowing when or where you will reach your goal.

But keep trying!
Do not give up hope.
And most of all...never stop believing in yourself.

For within you there is someone special...
someone wonderful and successful.

No matter what you achieve,
as long as you want it and it makes you happy,
     you are a success.

Happy March and hopefully, spring will be on the way everywhere in the U.S.A. soon. It is cold and wet out here today.
In honor of writers everywhere, particularly those suffering from the dreaded rejection slip, or from a chronic illness, I present a short story for you....it was published many years ago in University Press....

                                                                   TUMBLEDOWN

 

                                                                     A Short Story  

 

 

     She held the long white business envelope in her right hand. 

     A sudden anguish swept over her as she stared at it.  Long white envelopes had become her enemy as of late.  It was a bitter reminder of having tried, yet failed all in one neat little package.  Should she open this one or let it sit?  Or better yet, just get up out of this old recliner of torn material and chipped wood and just throw it away?  Would it enhance her life to read it or only make it worse? 

     Someone might ask her how opening an envelope could be such a daunting task.

     Her husband had been the first to broach the subject:  “It’s just a stupid envelope.  Stop making such a big deal of it already.” He admonished as he made a move forward to snatch it from her.

     She pulled back and placed the envelope behind her as tears fell from her face. “It is a big deal.  This is my life. Our life. Our future.” Her voice echoed of the pain that wreaked havoc throughout her once vibrant body.  He just didn’t understand.  How could he?  Did he, like her start each day stumbling out of bed wishing fervently for a pain free effortless day?  A day with a purpose.

     “You’re obsessed with it and I’ve had enough!”

     Six days later he walked out on her.  He moved in with a female co-worker and she never heard from him again.  At first she had wanted to kill him, ring his bloody neck and throw his mangled body into the Hudson River.  But she no longer had the strength for such nonsense and gave up.

     That was five years ago. 

     It all started so simple.  A disabled veteran she could no longer work.  Not in any kind of real job anyway and as far as she could see there was no real reason to go on with pain and overwhelming fatigue her constant companions. 

     Thus she decided, after many hours of despair and contemplation, that a return to writing which she had always enjoyed doing before, might be her salvation.  She would do it for no one but herself.  For a sense of purpose.  To keep her from the bad thoughts that loomed about her.

     I’m on a first class ride into hell and Satan is the driver. 

     Story of her life.

     It wasn’t hard to begin a novel.  It wasn’t difficult to write one.  An idea had taunted her for years.  She even wrote down a paragraph then stopped.  Years ago.  Fatigue and pain had stopped her then, put a halt on what she did best.  As when her illness first engulfed her, she had no choice but to stop writing.

     Becoming disabled with a mysterious illness of which there was no cure or treatment was not very comforting.  Becoming ill at twenty-one was intolerable, unacceptable, and heartbreaking.

     “You have a virus.” The young naval doctor had told her after giving her a physical.  “Your lab work is normal and so is your x-rays.  You’re healthy.  You should be feeling better soon. Give it time.  It’ll eventually work its way out of your system.”

     The diagnosis or lack thereof was made at the Pearl Harbor Navy base in Honolulu Hawaii.  That was 1985.   She remembered it well because it was the final visit on her whirlwind of exams of going back and forth to sick call every day over a three-week period.  She was sick in bed for a total of six weeks before she even began to feel better.  A year later the persistent weakness, headaches, body aches and abdominal pain returned with a vengeance.

      The diagnosis was a twelve-letter word that she had never even heard of before: fibromyalgia.  A tedious monster of a disease that played host to a number of other debilitating symptoms that really had no tests and was found by process of elimination. 

     How terrible it was to be so ill at such a young age.  She had had her whole life before her but not anymore. 

      Her husband supported her, at first.  He thought the idea of writing was great.  At least she wouldn’t be so cranky all the time.  Their sex life improved and when she wrote, they had the best sex they ever thought possible but her creative high didn't last long. She grew more tired and uncomfortable.  Her joints hurt.  She slept thirteen to sixteen hours and naps became a routine part of her day.

     Stubborn and strong willed she trudged forward into the bleak darkness determined not to let her health overwhelm her.  It took her four years to face the new limitations set before her.  How agonizing it was to no longer possess a photographic memory she once took for granted.  Simple tasks such as brushing her teeth were no longer simple.  She needed help.

      As the years passed slowly her health deteriorated. New problems creeped up and they too had no cure or treatment and were just something new to endure.  It was as if the physicians who cared for her had found and opened a new can of worms.  Specialists: she saw many: so many there were few she did not hear of. She no longer wanted to see or hear of physicians and appointments with them became like dens of torture.  They were all her enemies now.

     “It never ends does it?” she asked as her primary care physician read off the results of her latest blood tests.

     “You have to take care of yourself.” Admonished her latest doctor, a middle-aged woman with black rimmed glasses, a caring demeanor and a hooknose.  “Reduce stress. Try to relax. ”

     “Yeah sure.” She countered with sarcasm.  “So you can find something else you can’t treat or else something worse.”

     “There’s always hope.” The doctor said patting her hand.

     “Right.” She snapped.  Hope was long gone. So were all her dreams. “Summer’s gone; fall is in and with it the dark gray of depression.” She stood up. “I’ve had enough.  I’m not coming back.”

     “See you in three months.” The doctor told her.

     She nodded.  Too scared to ignore her health she remained the dutiful patient and kept her appointments.  In hopes of getting better or at least finding some effective treatment for her ailments, she submitted to lab work and other tests deemed necessary but they made no difference, made no dent in aiding her. There was no more light at the end of the tunnel. Only darkness-total blackness lay ahead of her now.

      The bouts with depression were multitudinous and swarmed about her too many times for her to recall.  Her hands trembled violently and she was painfully weak.  She couldn’t remember anything not even mundane details as lack of concentration prevailed.  She felt useless and inferior to all around.  She was afraid to try anything new because of failure and withdrew into her own world-her cocoon safe from the pressures of the outside.  Unlike before she could no longer handle criticism or rejection. 

      Sadly the respite therapy that writing once offered her had come to an end.  A heavy weight around her neck, it hung low and forbidding.  It had become nothing but a sad reminder of a life wasted due to poor health.

      Then the worse scenario that could have happened arrived.  She grew more emotional, irritable at every turn and withdrew from everyone and everything and that was when her husband had left her.  He too grew tired of the illness that had encroached upon their lives and turned her into someone he’d rather not know.

     The envelope was nothing but a piece of paper with other paper inside.  It was an inanimate object and couldn’t harm her.  Or could it?

     An inanimate object yes-but it was far from harmless; its contents had the power to diminish her and with it all her ambitions, hopes and dreams.  Its dominance lay in what it contained negative words on an eight and a half by eleven-inch sheet of paper.  A photocopy of a form letter no doubt.  Most were clear copies, some ghostly shadows as if the toner needed replacing.  If I sent out something like this, I would deserve rejection.  But she never did yet rejections were all she ever received.  A few letters were personal or at least appeared to be.  Some had personal hand written notes of rejection somewhere scribbled down on them and it was those that she cherished and respected.  They were the ones she would have wanted for an agent because they had at least taken the time to say something-anything.

     The rejection letters were many.  With four attempts at trying to sell ten novels, she had amassed a collection large enough to wall paper her den.  Two hundred and twenty seven at last count and those were not including the ones sent by email.

     The comments, form or otherwise were multifarious, and said very little if anything.  “Sorry not for us.”  “Sounds interesting.  Not the right agent.”  “Although it has merit, I pass.”  “I enjoyed the writing but I didn’t connect with the story.”  “Not commercial enough.”  “Selective market demands mean I must be very selective.”  “Not taking on new clients.”  “No first time authors.”  The best one to come along was “Great story but not believable enough to fall in love with.” 

     With each rejection, emptiness pervaded her heart.  Sadness like no other poured into her soul as the hole in the dam spread slowly wider.  Depression lurked at the gate ready to rush in when she gave up.  What was it they wanted anyway?  Bronte? Austen?  Hemingway?  Aren’t they all dead?

     At first she tried to ignore the rejections.  What did they know anyway?  It wasn’t as if she needed to get published.  She had had several short stories and articles published over the years, scattered about in numerous publications.  But it did matter.  The more rejections she received the more she was determined to press forward.  It became a quest that she aimed to win.  But after writing four novels, it became too much.  She wanted to quit but couldn't.  Quitting meant failure and failure was unacceptable to the hopeless perfectionist.

     Undaunted though discouraged, through it all she went onward.  College had been her dream and though it was a difficult task, almost impossible, she had endured.  She was absent many days and had to drop many classes more than once sometimes-whole semesters but she finally did it.  It had taken her thirteen years but she had finally obtained a Master’s degree.  But none of that meant anything to her now.

     She stared at the half empty bottle of Laphroig whiskey.  A gift from her deceased brother from many Christmas holidays ago.  Which year she wasn’t even sure.  She wasn’t a drinker but the contents of the envelope scared her.  She needed to relax and thought alcohol was a way out.  The few glasses of wine had worked when she received twelve rejection letters in one week the month before.  The few cans of beer had worked when she received fifteen, ten by mail and five by email the week earlier.

     She eyed the envelope, as it lay motionless on her heavy oak dining table.  It was nothing but paper but its contents terrified her.  She glanced at the whisky bottle and it seemed to call her name: Annie. 

     It stood on the edge of the table a foot from the envelope.  In her handwriting on the envelope she had put her return address: the SASE.  “And include an SASE if you want a response.” The literary magazines had admonished.  And she had listened.  The latest copy of the Writer’s Digest, unread, lay nearby.  

     Unfortunately, not all agents or publishers abided by their own rules.  Some used email and kept her envelopes.  Some never responded at all and she wondered what had become of the unused postage.   Just exactly where were her SASE’s?  She certainly never saw them again.  Probably in the zone with all the missing socks and the image brought a temporary smile to her lips. 

     The blues were bad this time.  Depression her greatest ally.  The sense of discouragement engulfed her, swallowed her whole as if it were a great white shark.  She tried to be reasonable but couldn’t. 

     Slowly she eased her hand toward the bottle and as her fingers reached the neck, she hesitated to grasp it.  Drinking was not a way out; her conscience though fading admonished her.  No but it would sure ease her mind for a little while.  Her trembling hand outstretched, she grabbed it, unscrewed the cap and in one swift movement she gulped down a bit.  YUCK!  She shot to her feet, ran to the kitchen sink of dull stainless steel and spit it out.

     Coffee stains and dried food crumbs littered the basin’s bottom and she could not recall the last time she had cleaned the sink, if at all.

     What was I thinking?  Aside from wine and beer and cocktails, alcohol was nothing for her.  It tasted horrible!  It burned her throat.  She tasted it in her nose.  The smell was foul and lingering.  It was bitter.  I’d make a terrible alcoholic and strangely the fact offered her some relief.  It offered her some courage to do what she wanted.  What she needed.  Release.  Relief.  An end.

     It’s now or never she thought as she reached out to the envelope, took it into her hand and ripped off one end.  The end with the stamp.  Slowly as if waiting for something to spring out, she removed the contents and unfolded the one page letter.

     The familiar words seemed to stand six inches tall, boldface and menacing, as they seemed to jump out at her:

     “We regret to inform you it is not our policy to take on first time novelists.”

     She didn’t have to read anymore.  She knew the outcome as she crinkled it up into a ball in her hand and ignored the sharp points as the paper stuck into her soft flesh.  Another rejection letter.  From an agent or a publisher it mattered not.  Why do they list themselves as being receptive to new writers when they really are not?  Was it cruelty of fate, ill-placed timing or a cruel joke on their part?  She certainly didn’t think it amusing.

     Feelings of failure overshadowed her reasoning as despondency befell her and one thought came to mind.  Her promise.  Without her health and without any future, there was no need to go on.  It wasn’t the first time the thought came to mind.  It’d certainly be the easy way out.  It wasn’t as if anyone would miss her.  She was a nothing.  A nobody.  She never even had any friends left to speak of.  Where were they anyhow?  Now that she needed them.  Now that she was in the deepest darkest moment of her life.

     I’m so tired of being useless.  I wake up in the morning with no purpose after going the bed the night before the same way.

     I write to keep busy.  I write to live so I live to write.  In my heart, I know there’s something very wrong.  Deep in my soul.  I want to carry on but I feel so confused, so alone, so lost.

     Should I seek help?  No more doctors.  It just means endless tests that lead nowhere and drugs on top of drugs that offer nothing but ill side effects.  If I do this wrong, there’ll be drugs.  Do it right then.

     How many copies of her manuscript had she sent out?  So many she had lost count.  How many partials and synopsis?  Did it even matter? No.  It did not.

     Looking back, maybe she should have bragged more about her successes.  Put down about her college degree.  Elicit sympathy for her disability.  Called in on old favors. But she wanted to get accepted for her writing and not for what she knew.  But she couldn’t help wondering now if it would even have had made a difference?  Would it have worked?  Would anyone even care?  Probably not.

     All she knew now was it was no longer worth the hassle.  No more writing.  No more rejections. She had had enough.  How much time and money had she wasted and for what?  So much drivel was published yet she still got nowhere.

     She stood up from the chair, walked to the bedroom and opened the draw to her nightstand.  In it lay the small twenty two-caliber derringer with a wooden handle.  It had been a gift from her ex-husband.  Now that was a cruel joke.  Had he tried to tell her something back then and she had missed it? She removed it, checked for two bullets then stared at it.  Too messy she thought.  And what if she missed?  She’d be a vegetable.  The thought turned her off.  There was an easier way.  Not as messy and at least it would be contained.

     She headed into the small bathroom and turned on the bathtub faucet. 

     The bathroom was painted a putrid yellow and she hated it.  She found she hated everything as of late.

     It took a few minutes before the water turned from cold to warm and then finally steaming hot.  With a few twists of the knob this way and that, she had the temperature just right.  Warm enough to relax her but not burn as if that really mattered now.

     Slowly she undressed as the water splashed nearby into the light beige enamel.  Her T-shirt fell to the ground and along with it her faded jeans.  She turned around and grabbed the small knob of the medicine chest and opened it and moved the tube of Clearasil but it wasn’t there.  Behind the preparation H she found it: A small tray of razor blades and she decided just one would do nicely.

     She stepped into the tub and turned off the water.  The liquid was clear, warm and inviting and slowly she descended into it.  The phone rang but she ignored it intent on her goal.  Probably a wrong number anyhow or worse one of those annoying telemarketers who had nothing to sell that she wanted to buy anyhow. 

     The first slice.  It stung and burned but was tolerable.

     The first wrist was cut and the blood flowed.  Her blood. Dark red almost purple and she had to turn away.  She was tempted to stop but she had made a promise long ago.  If she didn’t sell anything by the fourth book she’d end it. 

     The other wrist was easier.  Slice. Slash.  Lengthwise from wrist to elbow she cut.  If you mean to do it, do it right not like one sees on television.

     She heard the last ring then her own voice came on the answering machine and commanded the caller to leave a message after the beep.

     “Hello Mrs. Price.” It was a woman’s voice that spoke. “This is Royce Publishing House and I’m calling to discuss your book.  It’s not our policy to publish first time novelists.”

     She laughed as the room began to spin and the loss of blood drained her of all her strength. 

     The call continued: “We’re very interested in publishing your novel if it’s still available. You may call me at (212) 555-1212.  Please call us as soon as possible so we can discuss where to go from here.  We’d very much interested in any more ideas you may have.”

     Ideas?  She had plenty. 

     With her last breath she laughed at the irony of it all: It figures.  Now they call.  Better late than never.  Was it possible after all this time?  Or was the call merely a dream? 

     For a moment ecstasy filled her heart then sadly the feeling vanished.

     Into the deepest darkest corners of despair she fled and now they followed her in.  Just where the hell were they an hour ago?  Who cares?  Certainly not her. 

     It certainly didn’t matter now.  Nothing did.

     She had the last laugh then died with a smile on her lips satisfied with a job well done.

She had seen it to the end just as she had promised.

THE END.

   

Happy Friday! Happy Valentine's Day! Happy Holiday Weekend! As a sweet idea for the long holiday weekend, I am posting a short story  I wrote some time ago. It is a contemporary tale. Hope you like it. And if you don't, let me know anyway.
Cheers!!!

 

                                                       HAIL TO THE COMICS

 

                                                                A Short Story

 

 

     “No more comic books Jerry!” Debbie was in one of her emotional rants and her husband was not sure what to say except to respond as he always did.

     “They’re not doing any harm to anyone.” He said weakly.

     “Ten dollars a week on stupid children’s books is too much.”  She lifted one of his latest, a Spiderman, took it into her hands and ripped it in half and threw it back at him.  A smug look of satisfaction covered her face when his dropped.

     He bit his lower lip inward and lowered his head in defeat.  “Yes dear.” He responded in a barely audible whisper.

     She sighed.  She hated when he went silent.  Her husband was nothing but a mouse and she hated him for it.  She couldn’t count on him for anything except for him to spend money wastefully on comic books. The stupid man must have an attic full and what good were they?  They just collected dust and took up space.  True she didn’t use the attic for anything but that wasn’t the point.  She was tired of living on a budget and watching every penny coming in and going out when he cared nothing about how their money was spent.  More than the comics she hated living in the little frame house on Paris Way.

     Livermore.  What a name for a town but how appropriate for a place she hated.  She detested it as much as she hated liver.

* * * * *

     It was a few days later when Debbie visited with their mutual friend Terri. The other woman and Jerry had met twelve years before at her father’s comic store in Berkeley.  They both shared a love for the colored pages of adventure and became a surrogate brother and sister and Terri loved Jerry and his wife deeply.

     “Lighten up on him.” Terri advised.  “At least he’s not gambling, drinking or cheating on you.”

     “He’s spending a fortune.” Debbie countered in annoyance.  Her younger friend didn’t understand a thing.  She opened a letter in today’s mail, made a face of disgust and threw it into the wastebasket next to the doorway by her feet.

     Terri disliked the thought of them fighting. “It’s just comics.”

     “He’s forty two years old.  He’s too old to read comics.”

     Terri eyed her and couldn’t help wondering if Debbie was just jealous of the time he spent reading rather than being with her.  Ever since their latest tragedy, Debbie seemed to be so… harsh with Jerry and Terri disliked her for it but it wasn’t her place to say so. “It’s a harmless vice.” She told her instead.

     “Harmless?” Debbie spat back, her face contorted in a fury the younger woman had never seen before and it frightened her.  “You add up in a week, fifty two weeks a year for the last fifteen years and tell me how harmless that is?” Jerry had promised to take care of her always but to her he had failed miserably.  She was bored, depressed and lonely and hated him for it.  Blamed him for all the bad things.

     A considerable amount Terri had to admit. “I see your point but it’s something he enjoys.  Let it be.”

     Debbie stormed out of the kitchen in a huff and Terri took it as a signal to leave.

* * * * *

     A week passed when Debbie received a certified letter she had hoped would never come.  For days, weeks and months she knew to expect its arrival but had fervently prayed that it would get lost or the facts misplaced someplace in computer land.  Unfortunately none of that happened and here it was. 

     Jerry entered the front door, placed his blue and white Igloo cooler that he carried as a lunchbox on the small table near the entry and moved to retrieve a beer from the kitchen.  He didn’t expect to find his wife seated on the sofa in the living room.  She always spent her time in the kitchen and he couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong.  Quickly he moved to hide his parcel behind his back but she had already caught sight of it and her blood boiled.  “I told you no more comics!”

     “They were discards from Terri’s.”  His brown eyes pleaded forgiveness.  “They cost me almost nothing with the discount she gave me.”

      She lowered her head in defeat.  It didn’t matter any more.  Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing.

     He sensed her worry over something else.  Fifteen years married he pretty much knew when something was troubling her that wasn’t anyway related to what she yelled about.  Cautiously he moved to the sofa and sat down next to her.  “What’s wrong?”

     When she looked up at him, her normally blue eyes were swollen, red, and puffy and her cheeks were tear stained.  Their eyes met and held for what seemed like an eternity.  He noticed the quivering lips and her hand trembled when she removed it from behind her back and handed him the typewritten letter.  “We owe three years back taxes.  If we don’t pay we lose the house.”  Her voice was weak and it terrified him to see her spirit gone.

     Debbie had always had the propensity for being a bitch.  He knew that when he married her for she had told him so but he had loved her so he didn’t care.  They had fights over the early years when money was tight and they were forced to live in teeny weenie apartments not always in the best of neighborhoods but they loved each other and that had kept them going.  Of course all that changed when they purchased their first house in the Livermore Valley of California six years before.

     They both wanted children and had desperately tried.  She had given up her career as an OB/GYN delivery nurse at Valley View hospital which was fine at first but when she still didn’t get pregnant a year later, she became depressed and hostile at having to stay home for no good reason.  When she became pregnant a year later, all looked well until she miscarried.  Three more miscarriages and Debbie became the bitch extraordinaire and Jerry missed his loving, intelligent, boisterous wife.  Where was she now?  He couldn’t even see her anymore behind the faded blue jeans, worn flannel shirt and stringy hair that she let go for days on end without showering.  She let everything go.  The house, herself and from what he read in the letter, the bills.

     “If you didn’t spend so much money on those damn comics, we’d have the money to pay this.” She lamented removing the blame from herself to him.

     He wanted to debate with her that since he worked full time at the laboratory it was her responsibility to pay the bills.  They had agreed years before that she would handle that part of the household because he was hardly at home and when he was he liked to spend it with her.  In order to maintain a comfortable lifestyle he worked endless hours of overtime as a security guard.  The rural community they had settled in was so overpriced and exorbitant to live in he had no other choice. It was more expensive to live than they could have ever dreamed possible.  Their little dream house had become a financial nightmare.

     Jerry loved her despite all the hostility she heaved onto him and would do anything for her.  As he held the letter in his hand he was at a loss what to do.  She was right.  He had spent so much on comic books.  Maybe it was all his fault.  Maybe the money should have been put into the bank for a rainy day like today.  Maybe the money spent on comics was foolish.  But the comics were his way out of the pain of the loss of not being able to father a child and not being a better husband.  It was a harmless hobby that Debbie never understood and had weathered him through many bad storms.  His father had collected comics for years before he was born and his mother never gave him a hard time so he couldn’t understand his wife’s hatred for it until now. 

     “Well…. What are we going to do?” She demanded determined not to let her tears show through. She didn’t want to lose their house.  She hated it but not really.  She hated herself and what she had become over the last few years especially the last several months and it was all Jerry’s fault for never being home and when he was all he did was read those stupid comics.  How she hated sharing her time with him with some dumb inanimate objects.  He paid more attention to them then he did to her.  There was nothing special about the little box of 1200 square feet but it was theirs and soon it would no longer be and it was her fault and wallowing in depression and drink that had caused it but she wouldn’t take the blame. 

     “I don’t know but I’ll figure out something.” He assured her and got up and headed down the hallway into their bedroom.  There he grabbed a chair from the desk below the window and stepped on it and above his head he pushed away the false ceiling that led to the attic crawlspace above.  Once his arms were above him he lifted himself up and gently situated himself on the spaced two by fours and kneeled over the boxes of comics so carefully preserved in dozens of black and white banker boxes he had collected. 

     Reviewing the scribbled black magic markers that marked the contents of each box, he went to the one that contained books from his father’s collection.  In it were comics from the Platinum Age.  They were comics his father had collected, loved and protected.  They were issues that friends had fawned over for years and repeatedly offered Jerry money for and he couldn’t remember how many times he refused.  He had kept them more for sentimental reasons than for anything.  His father had read from those comics to him at bedtime and when he was older, he had allowed Jerry to actually handle them and read them too but only once and then they were placed back into their protective sleeve for careful preservation. 

     He allowed his mind to wander back to his childhood days and the enjoyable time shared with his father over the comic books. Jerry never wanted to be a security guard.  He just sort of fell into it by lack of anything better to do.  Besides the money wasn’t too bad.  It just wasn’t enough. 

     It was a few hours later when a thought suddenly came to mind.  As he ran his fingers over the plastic sleeves that held his cherished comics he wondered if they were worth anything.  He was never a serious collector who bought, sold or traded so wasn’t sure how that worked if at all.  Collecting comics’ books was for fun and something he and his father had shared.  I wonder.   He replaced the early Batman, Mickey Mouse and Phantom Lady back into the box covered it and climbed down the ladder. 

     A peek into the bedroom and he noticed that Debbie was asleep.  He carried the box out to the car careful not to wake her or drop the potentially valuable contents.

     Back inside the house, he neared the bed and sat down next to her and touched her face.  She was cold and he could surmise that she had spent another night crying herself to sleep.  What he wouldn’t give to bring her back to the world of the living.  She was a modern woman and he loved her for it.  Strong willed, opinionated and independent, she kept him going long after he gave up.  Until now.  Maybe if he could save the house she would love him again as she did when they were first married.  Before the day they decided to change their lives and try to have children.  Maybe. 

     Slowly but cautiously he leaned forward and touched her lips with his.  It felt so good to be so close to her without yelling that he wanted to stay and wake her but they hadn’t made love in nearly a year and she didn’t want any part of him anymore.  He stood up, unfolded the homemade afghan that lay at the foot of the bed and brought it over her and kissed her gently on the cheek and left.

 

* * * * *

 

     By time Jerry pulled his Aerostar Van onto Telegraph Road in Berkeley he saw Terri outside the comic store getting ready to lock the door.  He beeped the horn to get her attention then got out and carried the box in front of him. “I know it’s late but I need to sell these.” Jerry told his young friend.

     She unlocked the door and let him enter then locked it behind her and walked around the counter.  Comix Collectibles had been her father’s shining star.  It was one of six stores across the country and when he died, she had inherited the profitable little chain.

     Jerry removed the lid off the box so she could see inside.  The box was full with comics stacked to the top all in protective plastic comic sleeves.  

     Terri eyed him in disbelief.  “You feeling all right?” She asked out of concern.  From the top she could see his rare Batman and Mutt and Jeff and she knew he’d never part with his comics if he were.  Especially not the ones his father had left him.  They were priceless to Jerry.  How many times had she made him an offer?  Something must have happened.  Unless… Debbie had given him an ultimatum and the thought saddened her.

     “Don’t ask why?” He shuffled his feet in embarrassment and avoided her gaze. “I need the money. How much for all of it?”

     “There are a lot of comics here.”  He had nothing to say to sway her and waited for an answer.  His heart was pounding, burning, itching and struggling to break through his chest.  “It’ll take me a few days to go through them.”

     He nodded and with his head hung down low left the store.  She lifted the top two comics and underneath found a Nick Fury #1 from June 1968 and from what she could see it was in near mint condition.  Next to it laid a Spiderman #22 also in great condition.  From what lay before her, she couldn’t help wondering if her friend knew what a gold mine laid in the box before her.  There were a More Fun Comics #110 from May 1946, and an old Mickey Mouse Magazine #1 from 1935.  She smiled and suddenly felt like a child let loose in a candy store and had the strangest feeling that sleep was something she would not see this might.

 

* * * * *

 

     The two days in passing were agonizing.  Jerry never felt so much pressure in his life.  Debbie never let up in her tirade as if he could pull a solution out of thin air.  When she wasn’t badgering him, she locked herself up in their bedroom and drank and cried herself to sleep.  Jerry was so wound up that when not at work he didn’t even spend time reading: Comics were not something he could afford to buy right now not when money was so desperately needed someplace else.

     When the phone rang later that evening, he ran to it and snatched it from the wall so as not to wake his wife.  When he heard Terri’s cheery voice, he sighed with relief.  “Come on down.  I’d like to make an offer.”

     “Great.”  He hung up and went to their bedroom and knocked.  “I’m going to Terri’s. I’ll be right back.”

     “No more comics.”  She yelled through the door, as if anymore would do them any harm now.  “We can’t afford it.”

 

* * * * *

 

     When he walked into the small corner shop, Terri waited for him behind the counter while other customers perused the wide array of comics that covered the racks on the walls.  Six customers were present at the moment ranging from two neighborhood high school boys, a female college professor, a scientist from the lab and an elderly woman who had watched Terri grow up and collected comics for her own young grandson.

     He was nervous as he approached her.  His hands were cold and clammy and he thought he was paralyzed when his feet stopped short just before the counter.

     He took in a deep breath as he waited for her to face him.  She finished what she was doing, took money from the high school customers and waved them goodbye then closed the draw to the register and grinned.  “How much do you need?”  She knew he was in trouble but just how much she wasn’t sure.

     She scared him.  It wasn’t enough.  All those years his father spent collecting and it hadn’t amounted to anything.  His wife was right.  He was a fool and a loser.  How could he have been so stupid?

     “Not enough huh?” His voice was forced and painful.

     “How much?” She pressed watching for some spark of life.

     He couldn’t speak.  How could he ever tell Debbie that they lost the house?  How?  She was counting on him.  The words fell from his lips.  “Fifteen thousand.”

     Terri eyed him with widened eyes.  “Dollars?” He nodded. “What for?”  Drugs?  God she hoped not.  Just what was going on?

     If she were anyone else, he’d keep silent but she was his best friend.  Her father had been a good friend to him.  Over the years she had become the kid sister he never had.

     “They’re going to take our house for back taxes.” The tears fell and he choked on them.  Embarrassed he turned away.

     She reached out and grabbed his hand and gently squeezed.  “You have a great collection Jerry.  I’ll give you seventeen thousand for what I took.”  She pushed the box at him and handed him a handwritten receipt on pink carbon paper.  “The rest is yours. Save it for a rainy day.”

     He was stunned into silence and for a moment he couldn’t move and when he checked the receipt and noticed that she only took two from him: Wonder Woman #1 and Detective #28 with Batman, he thought he felt his heart stop.  He caught his breath and when he opened the box and found it still full; all he could do was stare at her.

     “I took what I wanted.  I don’t need the others,” she winked. “But if you ever want to get rid of them, I’ll be glad to take them off your hands.  All those in there are older than I am.  Go home and tell Debbie you’re okay.  Sell me your whole collection and you pay off the house.”  But she knew he wouldn’t do that.

     “Terri I…” Words escaped him.  He was a reader not a speaker.

     She knew and didn’t need to hear his appreciation.  It was evident all over his face as the spark returned to his brown eyes.  “Go on. Get out. I have other customers to tend to.”  She told him.

 

* * * * *

 

     When Jerry returned home thirty minutes later Debbie was seated at the table with her face buried in her hands.  After everything that had happened to them in the last few years, what she wouldn’t give to see Jerry bring home a package of comics again.  When he had left earlier a sudden fear struck her.  What if she had pushed him too far and he left her with using a visit to Terri’s store as an excuse like the men of old once used the excuse of going out to get a loaf of bread of pack of cigarettes and never returned.

     Suddenly she was very alone and terrified to be.

     But when Jerry entered and placed the box onto the wobbly heavy metal kitchen table with Formica top, her heart leapt with relief.

     “We can keep the house.”  She looked up at him with tear stained eyes.  “I have the money.” He told her with a bashful grin.

     “But…. How?” She wiped her face with the back of her hands.  She couldn’t even begin to imagine what he could have done to raise that kind of money. “I don’t understand.”

     “I sold some comics.”

     “Comics?”  She was astonished by his revelation and deeply touched by his sacrifice.  His father’s comics?  How often had he turned down offers?  For the first time she realized what the silly books meant to him.  “You… sold all of them?”

     “Two.” His smiled widened to reveal a set of perfect white teeth.  His father had worked two jobs for his son to possess them.  “I told you they’re always worth something.” How much he hadn’t even known.

     “We can keep the house?” She slowly stood up and eyed her sensitive husband in an entire new light.  She never really wanted that much out of life.  Just a nice house and children and a husband to love.

     “Yes.” 

     She was elated beyond words.  She ran to him and hugged him and all her hostility crashed from her shoulders and onto the floor as she revealed herself to him.  “Oh Jerry.” She kissed him deeply, fervently as if for the first time.  “I’m so sorry.  I was so mean and nasty.”

     “It’s okay.” The kiss was an eye opener.  He never stopped loving her and never gave up hope that she’d return though he was frightened it might be beyond his patience.

     “No it isn’t.  I was just so devastated over losing the baby.”  The last was a still birth and had hit her the hardest.  Fourteen months had passed and still she had not recovered until now. “Please… forgive me.”  She fell against him and he took her into his arms.  “You’re my hero. Always.” She told him and never again would she ever doubt him or his love for her.

      Jerry hugged her tight and sighed with relief at the strength of her grasp about him grateful for a fresh start with the only woman he had ever loved and wanted.  Hail to the comics and all those who love them.  Who would have thought?

 

THE END