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{{I am enjoying this story and this character quite a bit. I’m working very slowly on it. I know exactly what I want from it, but it is taking some time to get it just right. If you have suggestions on improvements I could make, feel free to leave them.}}

Story Preview: “Haunting”

Sometimes glamour can distract a person from certain danger. Sometimes the thrill of a thing outweighs the consequences of that thing.

I was invited to spend the night in a castle while I was traveling through Europe. It was a promotional stunt, fueled by the long-held belief by the local people that this particular castle is in fact haunted. The building is quite small, made from a sand-colored stone and topped with a couple of weatherworn gargoyles — not the finest examples, but a reminder that this place is from a different time. I decided that this would be quite an adventure to recount when I arrived back in the Sates, so I went for it.

I was told to bring with me anything I might need throughout the night, but not more than a half-dozen or so items. The entire point was to make me feel a bit uncomfortable. I had decided by that point to make the most of this opportunity, so gathering the items wasn’t much of a chore. I knew what I wanted almost immediately.

I had a large journal with a black and grey patterned cloth cover, which I carry almost everywhere. I would use this to write if I was inclined to do so. I carry a journal around with me most of the time. Inspiration can catch me at odd moments and it is nice to have something handy to jot down ideas. Along with a few pens, I knew which two items were absolutely going to be with me. I had to consult my bags for the rest. I decided that a flashlight would be an excellent choice — loaded with fresh batteries, of course. I hadn’t packed one, so I’d have to stop at a store to get one. Realizing that the castle would not be furnished, I grabbed a pillow. I nearly took a blanket too, but the nights had been warm during my stay and I suspected that this one would be no different. The last thing I settled on was a jade pendant — an amulet of sorts — that had been left to me by my great grandmother. It is made of black jade and carved in the shape of a cricket. It has always been my good luck charm.

————–

I’m really into this story. There is more coming, but wanted to get a little snippet out there for everyone. There are a lot of confusing tense shifts. I apologize for that. I was rather unsure how to get it just right, but may move it all into past tense. The story is being told by the main character, as stated would happen. I think it is important to not use present tense for that reason. Bear with it… it is very rough.

Featured Image Art: John Kenn Mortensen, “192”

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{{first, let me just say thanks to Jennie. You are awesome. I am so glad you humored me in this weird request. I so wish our paths wouldn’t keep wandering off from one another.}}

Story: Cappuccino

“I don’t usually read those “I saw you” personals. I’ve always thought they were a little creepy. No offense.” Sam nods, indicating that no offense has been taken. “But I decided to scan through them for fun the other day, and there you were… looking for me.”

After a long pause, the two smile slowly at one another.

“I’m glad I found you,” Sam says. The waiters in the closed restaurant mill about, acting like they have more to do than they actually do. They are trying to make Chris & Sam aware that they closed almost an hour ago, which is finally dawning on the two. They have been gazing at one another, trying to recapture the magic of their chance encounter in the café. They aren’t finding exactly the same thing, but neither is particularly disappointed in this date. It has been going quite well in fact.

Chris has said all the right things, complementing when necessary and laughing at the right parts of the jokes. Sam has been attentive and doting, stressing the many excellent qualities that are so obvious. They are completely captivated by each other in this one amazing evening. Everything between these two seems perfect.

The attempts to usher the two lovers from the restaurant are becoming less subtle. There is increased urgency. The gazing soon moves out to the parking lot, where only two cars remain. The cars are next to one another in a strange coincidence. The two had met up inside, having come separately and not knowing what the other was driving. But there they were, side-by-side sedans. This makes both of them smirk a little.

“Would you like to grab a cup of coffee?” Sam asks hopefully.

“Yeah.”

The café where they had met is less than a quarter mile away and they decide to walk. They do this without much conversation, each analyzing the other’s mannerisms and imagining themselves happily married.

In the café, they both order a cappuccino. Sam’s heart races. The cappuccino started this love affair last Tuesday evening. It seems oddly important that the same drink has been ordered.

The two sit in a quiet corner. The café is relatively empty; it is late in the evening and the overnight crowd hasn’t started to show up yet. Both Chris and Sam are relieved that it isn’t as crowded as it can get. They want to talk.

Chris, being a little more talkative, nervously chatters about nothing in particular before deciding to share some background story. Sam learns about sisters and aunts and holidays at “Gram’s.” There is a mutual vision of sharing these things, even though the two have only recently met. Still listening intently to Sam, a smile slowly creeps across Sam’s face.

Sam prefers to not talk about family, as there is not much to tell. Having been alone for the majority of adult life, Sam has been searching for a family. Hopefully, Chris will satisfy this need. Instead of a family story, Sam talks about work. Chris is fascinated by the nuances of life in retail.

{okay, I created these characters and I just can’t get into them right now. I will update this one later. I also haven’t been able to determine the gender of either character. Perhaps it is better that they don’t have a specific one. It is more interesting to me that they could be either.}

Featured Image Art: AI Image (created using Wonder AI)

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These are two stories I wrote forever ago. The purpose of both is to introduce several characters I intend to use in various stories. These characters are a family in my head still and I will one day start recounting their lives. I hope you enjoy this, their Genesis.

American Dream [or Yesterday Hurts] (Revised Version)

I still can’t believe I am here. I just can’t stand this. I guess I can’t say I’m lucky, but I can’t say I don’t deserve it either. Rejection that is. It still hurts, and I think the worst part is that I can’t do anything about it. I started with good intentions; I am not a bad woman. I had the chance to have a family like I dreamed of doing, and I loved every moment of it. I married a seemingly wonderful man and had two beautiful boys, Chad and Ivan. I love them so much.

One day though, my husband left me. He ran off with a woman with perfect teeth and big breasts. I hated her then. Maybe I still do. But why shouldn’t I? I was a good wife and was still a damn good mother, but sometimes, you know, that thing inside you, that desperation, just needs something to make life easier, so I drank. I wasn’t a heavy drinker at first, not really. I just had a little in the evening. It made it better, the pain that is. I knew it was getting worse, but I tried not to think about it.

My drinking started getting worse. My children were suffering from my neglect, I realize that now, but I still had to have something. It seemed to be what I needed. I soon turned to abuse. Oh, I would never become physical with them, but sometimes it seems that words hurt worse. They do. I know that now.

Ivan was my baby, and he was only eleven at that time. The divorce and the pain of knowing what his father had done had gotten to him and I guess he was pretty depressed. I didn’t see it then, I do now. I feel so bad for not noticing he was hurting. As his mother I should have been there for him. But I was too busy being comforted by my bottle of whatever it was I was drinking. My other son, Chad was twelve. He ignored the situation. He would go spend time at his friend’s house and wander around the neighborhood.

I didn’t try. I only made things worse. I love Ivan; I really do. But he is different. I knew back when he was five and six that he might be gay. I started calling him “fag” and “fruit” and any other name I could think of. The names made me feel better at first, but would always make me feel worse in the end. He would cry and sit up in his room. I heard him. I didn’t care. I mean, I did care, but I didn’t do anything. I guess I’ve been a lousy mother. I know Ivan didn’t even know why I called him those names, not that there is an excuse. He understands now. He came out to his aunt about a year ago. They have been so supportive of him, and I think he might even have a boyfriend. I guess I am proud. Not that he is gay, but that he is happy. At least he is. He never told me he was gay. Chad told me. I felt terrible when I heard that and wondered if it was my fault. No wonder he hates me.

Anyway, my drinking somehow led to drugs. I didn’t really expect it to, but it did. In the back of my mind I told myself that it couldn’t happen. It seems that Chad knew it would. Ivan didn’t want to be around me enough to figure it out, so I don’t think he knew I went that far. He probably knows, but I hope not. I love those boys and never wanted to hurt them, but I knew when I started that they would be taken away when anyone found out. I regret my drug use now, but it is too late for that, I guess.

I sent my children to stay with their aunt, my ex-husband’s sister. She is a good woman, and treats my kids wonderfully. She is Ivan’s biggest support. I love her so much for treating my baby so well. I think sending them there was the best thing for my kids. A few days later I called to the rehab center. I was so nervous and embarrassed, but I knew I had to do that for my boys. Chad was fifteen then, and Ivan was fourteen. He hadn’t said two words to me in three months. I deserved it, I guess. I was in rehab for six months. I couldn’t believe I had to miss both of my kids’ birthdays. Chad turned sixteen on the first of March. Ivan turned fifteen on St. Patrick’s Day. He has always been proud of his birthday. It makes him feel special to have a holiday birthday.

I had given custody of the kids to their aunt . She would have given them back, but because of my rehab I had to go to court to prove myself. It was ruled that the boys would make the decision to come home with me or not. I think I wouldn’t have gotten them at all if they had been younger. Anyway, Ivan has never been a leader. I really expected him to do whatever Chad did. I knew Chad would come with me. We have always been close. The boys were given another week at their aunts to make a decision. In that time, I rented myself an apartment and applied for some jobs. They were small jobs, but I figured they would have to do.

A week later I showed up to pick up the kids. Chad was ready. His bags were stuffed haphazardly, like he couldn’t have had any less time to pack, though he had a week. No one said a word as Chad gave me a hug and ran out to put his stuff in the car. Eighteen and still a mama’s boy. Ivan was leaning on the wall, like he was hiding. He looked like he was mad, but he was about to cry. He didn’t even look at me. I think he wanted to, but he didn’t. A got one of those lumps in my throat. I wanted to cry. I didn’t though. I just went home with Chad. On our way home, I cried. Chad starting saying that Ivan was a jerk and couldn’t believe he didn’t come. That day Chad called Ivan a “fag” and it killed me. I started crying. Chad said he didn’t mean it, and almost started to cry, I think. Ivan and Chad loved each other. They had to. Without each other they had no one. Well, they had their aunt, but they still needed each other.

Being rejected by one of my children really hurts. I mean, I knew it wouldn’t be a good feeling. But Chad was at home, and I still felt as bad as I did before. I guess I was ashamed of myself for everything I had ever done. But I still loved my baby, even if he did hate me.

I started my new job, waiting tables. It wasn’t much, but it helped and the apartment was small enough to make up for the difference. It felt empty without Ivan, Chad told me Ivan had never felt like he belonged in the family. I wish he knew how much I loved him.

About a month passed and I decided to go talk to Ivan. I wanted to let him know how much I loved him. I went to see him at his aunt’s. I called for him and he didn’t come. His cousin told me he had locked himself in the cedar closet. I went to the closet and tried to open it. It was locked. I knew it was a stupid idea to put a lock on a closet door. said that the first time I saw it there. He wouldn’t talk to me. I could hear familiar music. I had bought a tape for his tenth birthday. It was all he had wanted. He had wanted it for so long. He still had it. I started to walk leave when Ivan knocked on the door three short knocks. I knocked back twice. Those knocks were kinda our little thing at our old house. His room was next to the master bedroom. I would knock three times and he would always knock back twice. It was kinda like saying “I love you” I guess. As soon as I had finished, Ivan slipped one of his paintings he had done under the door. The background was black and gray, with a red heart. In the heart two people, one with long hair the other with short hair. I turned it over and on the back was a note: “I love you mom. Ivan” I didn’t thank. I just left. I didn’t know what to think. I had the painting framed. It is hanging in my living room now. Ivan has still never seen it, and he has still not spoken to me. I decided soon after to look for some support. Divorce is hard, but I took mine too far. It destroyed my family and we will never be the same, not that we were ever really happy. I am so happy to have found this group. I hope you can help me relieve some of the hurt. Thank you.

Brian Fuchs 5.23.1998

Character: Jean (Original Version)

Jean walked swiftly into work at nine fifteen and sat at her desk, stopping a moment to catch her breath. “Hi Jean” Sue said from the next desk.

“Oh… hello,” Jean started, “Ivan was over last night and I took him to school and I had to get gas. It’s been a long morning…did I miss anything?”

“No. It’s been a slow here.”

Jean allowed herself time to worry about Christine, as she always did. Christine had married Jean’s brother, Robert, and when he ran off with another woman, Jean became closer to Christine and checked on her frequently. Christine would slip into periods of depression sending her children to stay elsewhere. Ivan almost always ended up at Jean’s. He was close to Brooke, Jean’s daughter. The two would talk about school and their parents acted so much alike. His brothers would end up at a friend’s house or at Jean’s mothers, but never together. Jean constantly worried about them. She does this too often, Jean thought to herself, she is missing her children grow up. With that, Jean decided to go talk to Christine after work as she always did when Christine was like this. She was too stubborn to let Christine waste her life away.

By four that afternoon, Jean’s mind was racing in anger. “I’m going early, Sue.”

Jean pulled up to Christine’s house, being sure to lock the doors as she got out of the car. She walked up on the porch. The glass on the storm door was still missing. Christine had thrown a mantle clock through it when Robert walked out on her. Jean rang the doorbell. Receiving no answer, she fumbled angrily for her key and walked in. She sighed as she walked through the house. The laundry was in heaps in the living room and the dirty dishes overfilled the kitchen sink. “Chris?” she called. “Chris….” She went back in the kitchen. On the table, among various bills and schoolwork from the kids, there was a note:

Jean- I knew you would come. I had to leave for a while. I don’t know how long I will be gone. -C

Jean’s eyes widened as she read the note. She didn’t how to take it. The anger she felt turned into guilt and she stood there with the note in her hand, her mind racing with where Christine could be. She stuffed the note in her purse and left.

When she got home, she wasn’t sure what to do. “Ivan!” she called. “Ivan?”

“What,” Ivan asked calmly, appearing from the den. Jean ran up and hugged him. He was taller than she was, which made it difficult, but she held on tight. Ivan reluctantly put one arm around her. She let him go and just stood there, looking at him. “Dinner will be ready at seven and Jerry will be home then.” Jean turned and walked into the kitchen and phoned her mother. Ivan looked over at Brooke and raised his eyebrows in confusion. Brooke shrugged her shoulders.

They ate in the den. Jean was not chatty as usual. She explained what had happened and they were completely silent. “I’m going to bed,” Ivan finally said, not having finished his meal. Jean got up, found him some blankets and told him to sleep on the floor in Brooke’s room if he wanted. Jean couldn’t sleep that night. She worried about Christine. Ivan cried himself to sleep and Brooke fell asleep soon after Ivan’s crying stopped.

Ivan woke up with a sharp pain in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or guilt or sadness.He had spent much of his time like this lately, but now that his mother had gone, the pain was much greater. Ivan had become a master of confusing himself. He would tell himself one thing, while he would want it not to be true so badly that he would tell himself that. He did that with his mother. He did not want her to be gone so much that he would build up a deep denial and feel she had not run away.

“Honey… better get up and get ready for school.” Jean said solemnly as she passed by Brooke’s door.

“Okay.” He said, with a deep crackle of morning in his voice.

Ivan sat in class, trying carefully to look as if he was listening. As his first-hour teacher explained quadratic equations, Ivan’s mind raced and his stomach ached. It was still early enough that his eyes were sore from last night. He thought mainly of his mother, but he would occasionally have an out-of-the-blue thought about the history test next week, how he felt he wasn’t normal like other teenaged guys with their girlfriends. He knew that he wasn’t going to have a girlfriend; he did not want one. But then, he would think about his mother, sharpening the pain in his stomach.

“Ivan!” the teacher said.

“Oh… what?” Ivan said trying to sound likr he misuderstood the question.

“Can you work problem twenty-seven on the board?”

“No… I need to go to the office… I don’t feel well.”

When Jerry arrived at the school, Ivan was sitting on a bench in front of the building, hugging his knees for comfort. He grabbed his bag slowly and seemed to crawl into Jerry’s truck.

“Hi Ankle…” Ivan said slowly. Jerry was called “Ankle” by the entire family. When she was younger, his brother’s daughter could not say Uncle Jerry, therefore she called him “Ankle Cherry.” The name stuck and Jerry was now so used to it, he didn’t notice.

“Upset?” Jerry asked, trying to sound compassionate.

“I feel sick.”

“Yeah?”

“My stomach hurts… and my eyes… “

“Well, you just need some rest.”

“Yeah, probably…”

Jerry dropped Ivan off, as to get back to work as soon as he could. Ivan went up to the garage door, entered the code and went inside.

Brian Fuchs 3.31.1998

Featured Image Art: Mark Rothko, “White Band No. 27”

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Some birds chirp cheerfully, just outside the small one bedroom house. Morning reaches in the blinds of the bedroom and across Opal’s face, weathered with her eighty years. It pulls on her eyelids and she gladly greets its warmth. She sits up, yawning a moment, and glances over at the clock, 7:30. Opal has a way of waking at the same time each morning. She has never needed an alarm clock.

Opal lives alone in her house, which is set apart from the rest of town by a small group of trees. She never married and has no children, so she rarely has visitors. Today, however, is Tuesday, and July. She hires a boy from town each year to cut the grass and he will be at Opal’s around noon. Every week he comes at the same time. Each week Opal looks forward to these visits.

Still in her housecoat, Opal goes into her kitchen, and fixes herself a cup of coffee. She reaches into a plastic container on the counter and retrieves a croissant. She made the croissant a few days ago, and it is still moist. Opal often reaches in and finds a dry one. This one is not dry though, and it smells sweet, having been warmed by the sun. Opal makes sure the plastic container is always in the sun’s path. That way, each morning her breakfast will be warm. She places the croissant and coffee beside each other on a saucer and carries them onto the porch in front of her house. As she eats her breakfast, she watches some bird bathe in the early morning dew on the high grass. That boy will be here today, and its about time, she thinks to herself. Opal picks up the cup and saucer and carries them back into the kitchen. She sets them in the sink and runs water in the cup. She will get to it later.

The boy will be here around noon, Opal thinks, and decides to get dressed. To her, it is important that a lady present herself well whenever she has company. She finds her favorite yellow dress. The color is barely visible in the dress, but Opal remembers its brilliance. It is still her favorite. She fixes her hair, which she still keeps long, though it is rather thin now. She puts much of it into a bun, leaving two locks to hang down on either side, in front of her ears.

Opal rarely wore make-up throughout her life, but today the boy is coming to cut the grass, and she wants to look nice for him. She puts on her lipstick deliberately making sure her lips received the color within each wrinkle. She tries as she goes to not put the make-up on too heavily, as she had read in her magazines for mothers.

By eleven o’clock, Opal is ready. She sprays a bit of perfume on herself, sniffs it, just to be sure it is enough, and goes into the living room to wait. The living room is barely big enough for her sofa and chair with their coffee tables. She sits in and lets the late morning sun light and warm the room.

The boy will need something to drink, she thinks to herself and goes into the kitchen again. She retrieves her glass pitcher, which she only uses on Tuesday afternoons. She makes a full pitcher of tea and places it in her old refrigerator. I will put ice in it when the boy gets here, she thinks. She goes back into the living room.

Opal glances over at an old clock hanging on the wall, 11:53. She smiles, realizing that the boy will arrive soon. He has been late only twice, she thinks. Once when he came at 2:00, and once when he came by just to say he would not be able to cut the grass that week. She hopes he will not be late. She picks up her photo album. She only has one since she has no family. She has various pictures of friends in it. She even has a picture of the boy who will come today to cut her grass. He is a handsome young man, she thinks as she pauses at his picture. She glances at the clock, 12:20. She decides to take the tea outside, so it will be ready when the boy does arrive. He must be running late, she thinks.

Opal has no telephone, so her contact with the world is through visits from people. The boy coming today was her closest friend. There was also a lady who came from the Methodist church in town. Opal had grown too old to attend services at her congregation, so the Methodist lady took over. Opal is always polite to the lady; she doesn’t have the heart to tell the woman to leave her alone. She looks at the clock as she carries the tea outside, 12:34. She sits out on the porch with the tea and two glasses. She made some sandwiches yesterday, but she decides they will be best if left in the refrigerator.

Opal sits on the porch until 1:30. Well, I better take the tea in; it is warm now, she thinks. She carries the tea back into the kitchen. She decides to eat one of those sandwiches. It is too hot to sit in the sun all day, so I better stay here in the living room, she finally decides. Besides, the boy will be here to cut the grass. If he waits too long it will be too hot.

Opal decides to take a nap while she waits for the boy to come. She is anxious and worried about the boy. At four o’clock, A knocking at Opal’s door startles her. Oh! The boy is here to cut the grass, she thinks. She is excited and gets up as quickly as she can. Her knees try to protest, but she persists. Walking across the living room, she looks outside. No familiar truck with lawnmower sits in front of her house and she wonders where the boy parked. She stands a moment at the door, straightening her dress. Excitedly, she opens the door.

“Oh! Hi Opal… well, you certainly do look beautiful this afternoon… how are you?” the woman on the other side of the screen begins. It is the Methodist woman. “May I come in?”

“Miss… I am sorry, but I am waiting for the boy to come cut the grass” Opal begins. “It is pretty high and he needs to do it as soon as he arrives,” she says as she points to the tall grass.

“Ma’am, I thought that boy came on Tuesdays…”

“That is why I must be ready when he gets here… I don’t want to wait another week.”

“But Opal… it is Saturday.”

“Well, leave me be then,” Opal says shutting the door on the woman. She is upset and sits down in the living room. Well, she thinks, he will be here on Tuesday then. She goes back into the bedroom. She is tired and it is just after four o’clock. She removes her make-up, and prepares herself for bed, as she always does. She lies down in her bed. I think I will sleep in, she thinks, I just don’t feel like getting up. Opal falls asleep, thinking of the boy who will come to cut her grass.

Brian Fuchs 5.5.1998

Featured Image Art: James Ensor, “Vrouw Met Blauwe Halsdoek (Old Lady with Blue Shawl)”