Never underestimate the power
of small mercies
and little miracles.
Even the tiniest of birds
can fly.
Best Advice (A Poem)
creative writing
Quiet Neighbors (A Short Story)
There were seven of us in the beginning. Ada, with her gray hair and storm cloud eyes, and June, who loved to laugh and to sing. There were Tilson and Thomas, the stoic farmer brothers, and Clancy, withered and whiskered, always with a flask in his jacket pocket. And then little Marie, a freckled thing with bright gold ringlets and a toothy grin. And of course, me.
It took me a little while to get used to things, but I’ve got a knack for making quick adjustments.
“You could save the whole world with a toothpick and some twine,” my mother always told me. “If only you’d keep you head out of the clouds.”
Yes, there was that. I’ve always been practical, but a dreamer. There never really was a good place for me, and so this new place was as good as any, and over the years, I became the storyteller, the collector, in a way, for all of us. I figured somebody should keep it all straight, and maybe embellish it a little, because what would that hurt, really. We weren’t going anywhere, that was for sure.
In the early days, we sometimes had visitors. They never stayed long, and eventually, they stopped coming altogether. It was just us, and we settled into the way things were.
Some nights, June and I waltzed under the moon and sang ballads for the stars.
“You crooner,” she purred, and flipped her long dark hair over her shoulder. It waved down her back, an obsidian river. “Some theater sure is missing its main attraction.”
I agreed.
And Marie. Marie, all of six and proud of it. Ada tried to tame her curls every day, and in the evenings, June sang her old lullabies. She liked to chase the lizards in the spring. She liked their bright blue tails. And she liked the bluebells. Every April, we’d find ourselves surrounded by the bluebells, growing in every direction.
“Blue’s my favorite, like the sky,” Marie always said, as she touched each cluster of flowers one by one.
Over the years, our number grew, though never by much at a time and ultimately not by much at all. We added Dorothy, a baker with red-tipped fingers, and Joseph, tall and proud with his chest covered in military medals.
“That little girl needs discipline,” he said once, not long after he’d arrived, as we watched Marie chase the fireflies.
“She needs more than she’ll ever have,” Clancy told him. “Reminds me of my own little girl.”
Then came the married couple, Henry and Abigail, who sniped at each other constantly but always held hands.
There were a few others, but they stayed away. If we saw them at all, which we rarely did, they’d seldom even tilt their heads in greeting. Ada didn’t much care for that. She called them rude. I told her they had every right to keep to themselves. “It’s not easy for everyone,” I said.
They were good years, and eventually we came to understand that the world had mostly forgotten us. But we had each other, our own makeshift family, and if you have a family, you have a home. And if you have a home, then you have a whole world right where you are. Though I won’t lie. It always irked me a little that I’d never see the ocean, or the Eiffel Tower.
I suppose things had been changing for a long time before we noticed. I imagine that the fields got smaller, that the houses got larger and people built more of them, and we just didn’t give it much thought. What did it matter to us, after all, if someone built a new house or cut down a tree? We were apart from all of that.
“It’s not our place to worry,” Dorothy said. “I did enough of that for three lifetimes, and I’m not about to give in to an old bad habit when I’ve earned a modicum of peace and quiet.”
It was the noise that changed things. It got to all of us, eventually. The constant hum of motors, the banging of a hundred hammers, the whir of drills and the scrape of saws. It started to drive us crazy, especially Dorothy.
“All that racket!” She stomped and seethed. “Damn it, I earned my peace! I earned it!”
And just as quickly as it seemed to have started, it was over.
And things were different.
“Do you suppose they forgot we’re here?” Ada shook her head. “Surely not.”
“I reckon they don’t care,” said Thomas.
“There aren’t all that many of us, and the weeds cover most everything. Wish I had my garden hoe,” added Tilson.
“Wouldn’t do much good,” Thomas said. “The weeds are too thick for that.”
I looked around, and realized he was right. Green Virginia creeper snaked all around us, blanketed the ground and rested over every gray stone surface.
“They’re awfully close together.” This from Joseph, sharp eyes forward and focused.
“I suppose it makes for fast friends,” offered June, with a small smile.
“More like enemies,” answered Clancy. “Won’t be any secrets kept, packed in that way. Like animals in a cage. No way to live.”
“What does it mean for us?” June looked over at me. “Will things change?”
“Things don’t change for us,” I told her.
I looked out ahead of us. Over the years, we’d seen young trees grow old, seasons and seasons of bluebells and snowstorms. We’d seen children play, and later return to play with their own children. That had been hardest for Marie. We’d watched, we’d witnessed, and no one knew. Now, we’d watch this, this seemingly endless sea of houses, and all of the people who lived in them. I didn’t know what we’d see, but we’d watch, as we always had, and we’d be here, and just like always, no one would ever know.
“Things don’t change for us,” I repeated, “and we’ll certainly be here longer than they will.” I thought for a moment, remembered the early days and the days after, and added, “Hopefully they’ll at least be quiet neighbors.”
************
Thank you for reading! This is the fourth of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2021 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Home.
Here are the first three stories, if you’d like to read them:
And if you want to join in the fun, here’s more information. I hope you do! But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here!
The next story will be posted at the end of May.
More (A Poem)
This we know
deep down
in our bones and blood.
Even buried under our worst moments,
tucked into the corners
of our own lives,
we know it:
We are made for more
than work
and worry.
Memories of School Picture Day(s) (A Poem)
“Smile,” they said,
and I did,
crooked.
“Your eyes are closed.”
Unsurprising.
“We’ll try again,” they offered,
which was kind
all things considered,
especially the line that day.
What can I say?
I’ve never been what they call
photogenic.
I’m good with it.
I hear a picture’s worth a thousand words,
and well,
pictures of me
will certainly
get you talking.
The Garden Path (A Poem)
There’s something magic,
isn’t there,
about a garden path in spring?
Always worth the following,
I think,
if only to see where it leads.
Or even just the slant of the light
along the way,
just right to make
the everyday
extraordinary,
and the ordinary
enchanting.
Blue Belle (A Poem)
Lady Blue,
now ring your bell
through forest, field, and fairy dell,
from riverbank to village green:
the time has come for growing things.
Ode to Beer (A Poem for National Beer Day)
Did you know there’s a National Beer Day? I didn’t, but I do now. And yes, of course I’m celebrating. Here’s a silly poem to prove it.
For you, O Mighty Brew,
libation of
fierce warriors
and
humble monks
alike,
we celebrate this day.
Quencher, and friend,
foe, and consoler,
partner in pleasure,
in sadness,
and (sometimes, perhaps) in crime
(we won’t speak of that now…),
you are a time in yourself,
a moment of fizzy bliss,
of foamy joy.
You, Oh Ancient Potion,
are powerful, potable,
volatile magic.
You make us brave
(but foolish).
You make us wise
(for a while).
To you, I tip my hat.
And then drop it.
Thanks for that.
Talk Out the Fire (A Short Story)
Harley Orr noticed everything.
When he and his mother lived in the city, he noticed the smell of exhaust and of people all around him. He noticed the other children in his daycare, their unmatched socks, and how the teachers always had dark circles under their eyes. He noticed his mother, how she moved like a racecar, and only stopped to sleep. He noticed how she stirred his mac and cheese for dinner, fast and then slow, always with the same wooden spoon, and served in the same blue plastic bowl. He noticed that he spent a lot of time alone.
Now, in the hill country, he noticed creaky house sounds and musty forest smells and the way the light slanted just right at about 4:00 in the afternoon on the second Sunday in March, on the creamy white wall of his new bedroom in his grandmother’s house.
They’d moved in with his grandmother not too long ago, Harley and his mother, and the little clapboard house on the mountain felt different, but not in a bad way.
“It won’t be forever, baby,” his mother had told him. “Just until I find a new job.”
He noticed how his mother’s voice tightened on those words, “new job.” His heart beat a little faster.
“But we’re not homeless, are we, Mom?”
“No, baby, we’re not homeless.”
“And we can stay here for a while, right?” Harley pressed his fingers into his palms, waited for her answer.
“Not if I can help it,” she’d said. “Your nana sure would love it, but we’re not hill people, you and me.”
Harley didn’t know what that meant, but he did know he liked his new room. It had a big window that faced an oak tree and a creek in the back yard. The house did smell a little, like dust, Harley thought, but it was clean and you didn’t have to eat your dinner on the couch, because there was a dark wood table right in the kitchen.
He also liked his grandmother. He noticed how she always smelled a little like caramel and peppermint, and how she smiled a special, crooked close-lipped smile at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, and how her knobby fingers combed his hair as gently as if he’d been a breakable thing.
“Look here,” she’d told him, perched on the side of his new bed the first night he’d slept in it, “this is your home now, understand? I want you to be happy here, okay?”
“Mom’s not happy,” Harley’d replied.
“Well, it’s awful hard to make Arlene happy, but we’ll see what we can do, won’t we?” She’d reached over and given his shoulder a squeeze, and then she’d said, “Goodnight, Harley-bug.”
He’d never had a nickname before.
That first night, Harley hadn’t slept much. His new room during the day felt bright and warm, but at night, it felt a little like a haunted, dark cave. He noticed the quick skitter of something outside, the groan of a shutter in the wind, the “sshhhh” of the breeze through the branches. In the morning, his grandmother had told him not to be scared, that it’s always a little hard to get used to new places.
“Remind me when you’re older, and I’ll tell you all about when your papaw built this house, and how we got used to it together.”
Harley’s mother got a job that first week, waitressing at a diner in town. She called it “temporary.” The hours were long, but the pay was good, and Harley was happy enough to spend the time with his grandmother. He noticed pretty quickly that things moved a little slower at her house. Mornings always meant a big breakfast, sometimes biscuits and jam, and sometimes scrambled eggs and crispy bacon. In the afternoons, his grandmother would walk down the hill to the mailbox, always pausing a few times to pull a weed or just look around or up at the sky. She’d start dinner at 3:00 each day, stringing beans or peeling potatoes or shucking corn in the sunroom. Now that the weather had changed, and the air was starting to warm, she liked to sit out on front porch, a plastic bowl nestled in her lap.
They sat together one day in the sunlight, watching the trees sway in the gentle spring breeze, and Harley helped string the beans while his grandmother peeled potatoes and onions. He noticed that his grandmother always gave him a little extra on his plate, if he did some of the work himself.
“You’re getting to be pretty fast with those green beans,” his grandmother told him.
“I like green beans,” he said. He adjusted the bowl in his lap, to show her just how many he’d done.
“Next, maybe I’ll teach you how to chop the firewood. I reckon you’re big enough to handle the ax.”
Harley looked over at her, eyes wide as saucers, breath caught right in his throat.
She winked, “I’m only kidding, bug.”
Harley released an audible sigh.
They sat together, both working in silence, until the vegetables were all ready to be cooked. Just as they both stood to go into the kitchen, Harley noticed a deep rumble from down the hill. He’d never heard a sound quite like this one, so gravelly and deep and loud. It was loud. He grabbed his grandmother’s free hand, dropped the bowl of beans.
“Nana!”
“It’s just a truck, Harley, don’t you worry.”
But she was moving fast, pulling him into the house. She told him, quicker than she ever talked, “Go on up to your room and don’t come down.”
“Nana?” Harley stood still at the bottom of the stairs. He noticed tears on his cheeks, and a sting in his eyes. He realized he was crying. “I’m scared.”
His grandmother came over, and she hugged him, tight but not hard. Outside, he heard car doors slam, and yelling, and worst of all, he heard someone screaming. Not quite screaming though. Screaming and crying together. He’d never heard anything like that before.
His grandmother let him go, turned him around and nudged him toward the stairs. “Everything’s fine and don’t you worry. I just got a feeling you don’t want to see what’s about to walk through that door.”
This time, he ran up the stairs two at a time. He slammed his bedroom door behind him. He thought about locking it, but noticed it didn’t have a lock. He hadn’t noticed that before. He took deep breaths, slid down onto the floor and pulled his knees to his chest. And he listened.
He heard the screen door open, and the screams and cries. And he heard muffled voices.
“…happened?”
His grandmother.
“…to the stove. Hot cast iron…oil in the frying pan…”
“…on into the kitchen…at the table…”
His grandmother, again.
“…thank…”
And then, everything went quiet.
Harley was scared, but he was also curious. He couldn’t help it, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. He didn’t want to get in trouble, but he wanted to know what was happening, and he wanted to make sure his grandmother was okay.
He stood up. Slowly, a little at a time, he turned the doorknob, and as quiet as he could, he opened the door. He stepped out into the hall, and crept down the stairs. He rounded the corner, and peaked into the kitchen.
He saw three people. One older woman, and one little girl. He noticed she was about as tall as he was, and that she had a big, red, horrible burn on her arm. And he saw his grandmother, standing over the girl. Her back was turned. She touched the girl’s arm, right on the burn. Harley winced, and he must have made a noise, because his grandmother turned around and spotted him.
“Come on in here, Harley. It’s all right.”
He took a few cautious steps, and then, feeling a little more brave, took the last big strides to the table. He sat down across from the little girl. He noticed her eyes were red, but she didn’t cry anymore.
“This is Helen and Libby. Libby’s about your age.”
Libby sniffed.
“Now, Harley, I need you to be real still and real quiet, and I’m going to work on Libby’s arm.”
Harley did as he was told, and he watched.
His grandmother closed her eyes. She held Libby’s burned arm in one hand, and with her other, right above the angry red splotch, made a little pushing motion in the air.
She said, “Water won’t burn, fire won’t quench, God’s word won’t lie.”
A little push in the air, right over Libby’s arm, and then again, “Water won’t burn, fire won’t quench, God’s word won’t lie.”
Harley just stared.
Once more, his grandmother pushed at the air above Libby’s burned arm, and said, “Water won’t burn, fire won’t quench, God’s word won’t lie.”
His grandmother opened her eyes, and looked at Libby. “Does that feel better?”
The little girl nodded her sandy blonde head, looked at her arm, poked at the burn, and smiled a little. “Yes, ma’am,” she answered.
“Thank you, Alice,” the older woman said.
“You don’t need to thank me at all,” Nana told her. “Just make sure you keep that child away from the stove when you’re cooking.”
The older woman stood up, and ushered Libby out of the room.
“And bring Libby back one of these days to see Harley.”
“I will,” the older woman said, and opened the screen door. “It’ll be nice for her to have a kid her age to play with.”
Libby smiled at Harley, and Harley smiled back.
They left through the front, and Harley heard the car start and then make its rumbling way down the hill.
His grandmother walked over to the sink and washed her hands. “You snuck downstairs, rascal,” his grandmother said. But she didn’t sound angry, and after she dried her hands on a kitchen towel, she beckoned him to her, to sit on her lap. “I didn’t want you to be scared. Your mother used to hate it when this happened. She’d be mad if she knew I showed you. Thinks it’s not real.”
“You fixed her,” Harley said.
“I took the pain away,” his grandmother answered. “I talked the fire out of the burn.”
“It’s like magic,” Harley told her. “You made her better.”
“In a way,” she said.
“How?”
“It’s my gift, straight from the Lord himself, and it belonged to my daddy before me.” She gave Harley a squeeze and said, “One day, I’ll give it to you.”
Harley’s eyes went wide. He shivered, a quick chill that started at the top of his head and made its way down to the tippy tips of his toes. “Really?”
“You’re my grandson, aren’t you?”
Harley nodded.
“And this is your home?”
He nodded again.
“Then yes, sir. But not for a long time, so don’t you worry.” She set her jaw and looked right in his eyes. “You’re a smart, brave boy. Don’t be afraid.”
Harley wasn’t afraid. For the first time, in as long as he could remember, he wasn’t afraid at all.
Thank you for reading! This is the third of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2021 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Home.
Here are the first two stories, if you’d like to read them:
And if you want to join in the fun, here’s more information. I hope you do! But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here!
The next story will be posted at the end of April.
How a Writer Spends a Rainy Day (A Poem)
little scribbles
tea and pictures
cloudy day
and a notebook page
tiny flowers
welcome the spring
take a moment
reminisce
write and read
and daydream
a letter for every raindrop
Limitless (A Poem)
I spoke to the horizon,
to the brightest sky and bluest water.
I said,
“You are limitless.”
It spoke back,
“So are you.”
A Virginia Writer's Diary 