Untitled fiction - Abby's story - The graveyard

"I always thought I would name my first born son after you, Dad. But I knew you would understand when no one else did. Especially mom. She was outraged, you know. I know you know how she was. Is she like that in the after life, too?" Looking down at the yellowing blades of grass at her father's gravesite, the weight of the loss Abby felt whenever she thought of him felt unbearably heavy. "He was quite brave, the boy named Z, the boy who tried to rescue me. He was a child, not a man. I knew that even then, but there was this agelessness in his eyes and such deep caring. I couldn't help but see you there. Hearing the news about your death . . . My heart wretched apart and I wasn't there to be with you. I felt such guilt. I should never have left, you needed me, no I needed you, I needed the time to reconcile never seeing you again."

Abby laid down in the grass with her head close to the tombstone. She turned on her right side and stroked the ground finding some comfort in the sensation. "Zachary has been the most wonderful thing to ever happen in my life. You would have loved him. I know, you would have loved any child of mine. But really, Dad, Zachary is someone special. I see you in him and I see more that I guess is his father. I don't know how to tell Zachary about his father. What's that you say, the truth is always the best? I know you believed that but it didn't seem right to me at the time. When I came home pregnant and sick all I could think was how I had disappointed you. I wanted you to be proud of me, Dad." The grass grew wet beneath face as tears spilled over the bridge of her nose. Sniffling, she reached into her pants pocket she had brought in preparation for this visit.

"Dad, do you think it is funny that I don't talk to Mom's grave like this?" Abby sat up slowly. "She never listened to me when she was alive. She never let me get a word in edgewise. Now I can say all I want without her interrupting, but I don't. I guess I never really had anything to say to her while she was living and that hasn't changed since she died. Dad, does that mean I didn't love her? Did she love me? I have tried hard not to be like her. I used to be so angry with her. I hated the way she pushed me to learn the farm business. I hated that she didn't want me to leave the state to go college. I have tried to forgive her but I don't know if that is possible. I know I need to. I don't want Zachary to stand over my grave one day and not want to talk to me. Tell me I have been a good mother to Zachary."

Abby heard a rustle behind her. Carefully she rolled over to her stomach and saw a baby bird frantically flapping his wings. She looked up and saw the nest above her head where the mother bird had pushed the fledging out. Carefully, Abby scooped up the baby and placed him on a branch near the nest and backed away. She watched intently as the mother bird again pushed the fledgling off the branch, this time getting the coordination of wing flapping just right so that he soared and then landed on the ground near Abby's feet. Again Abby scooped up the bird and replaced him in the tree. Again the mother pushed him off the branch and this time he flew up to the top of the tree instead of falling to the ground. "Are you telling me something, Dad? Are you saying that Mom's pushing gave me the wings to be who I am? Is that I am supposed to do for Zachary now?"

Abby took a deep breath and slowly letting out the air. Whether this was a message from her father or not, she knew what she had to do now.

Untitled Fiction - Abby - A state of mindlessness

Most of the prisons we experience have nothing to do with thick walls or barred windows and doors. They are much more subtle. A hand that grasps your own a little too tightly, fingers interwoven with your own, unyielding in its intention. We enter these prisons freely perhaps not knowing what has been agreed to. All we understand is that one day there is no way to back out the door from which the bond was created.

Abby tried to roll over but was trapped by the arm of the man she called husband. Over the years she had tried to love him believing that in giving of herself and receiving of him, love would appear and grow. When was the day when she had realized it wouldn't be? Dan was not a bad man. He was a loving husband and doting father to the boy that was not his biological son. Each day he worked from before sunrise to late into the evening keeping the farm running. He had been essential in the management of the family homestead after her father's death. Abby's mother rejoiced in her son-in-law often offering her praise for all his unselfish giving to her daughter, grandson, and of course the land.

"Marrying Dan had been a necessary sacrifice," Abby thought. "And the guilt I feel is my sorrow that I can not love him back in the same measure."

Abby thought back. The day she had returned from Washington, D.C. had been sorrowful. Dan had sent her money for the bus ticket but it hadn't been in time to say good-bye to her father one last time. Her father, she had cherished him. He had doted on her, his only child. Dan had been there to hold Abby as she shook and cried, never saying a word, never acknowledging how her body didn't melt into his. And yet, Abby appreciated his presence.

He had been her confidant even though they had not been lovers. He knew Abby's dreams of university and had let her go to Stanford even as he feared that she wouldn't return. But she had returned . . . for her father, to care for him after the first heart attack.

Untitled Fiction - Abby - another piece

Leaning against the wall, Abby checked her pulse. Having finished her running for the day, she mentally reviewed her schedule for the day. Now that she was back on the farm, she didn't really need to run like this. She got more than enough exercise. There was always something to do, especially lifting. Her upper body strength had increased since returning home.
"One good side effect," Abby thought to herself.

Untitle Fiction - Abby's story

Dust rose in huge clouds behind the VW bus as it barrelled down the country road.

"They must be seriously lost to be driving down this way," Abby thought momentarily distracted from plowing the field. Since her father's heart attack, she had taken over most of the farm chores. It had been hard leaving school but her family needed her. No one else knew as much about how her father had run the farm as she did. Ever since she had been a little girl, she had accompanied her father as he pursued job after job. He had always talked to her like an adult and Abby felt conversations with her dad had helped develop her into the articulate adult she was today. He had taught her to read before she started school. They had read newspapers to keep up on current events and hundreds of books discussing the characters, the settings, the plots. He had wanted her to be more than a farmer and had been so proud when she had won the scholarship to Stanford. He wouldn't have asked her to leave school. It was her mother who had asked. Dad was too weak and unable to talk coherently as yet.

"I wonder where they are headed. I wonder if they would take me?" Abby let day dreams of leaving home again ease the boredom of plowing another row in the field.

Untitled Fiction - Zachary's story - Part II

More tears flowed from Zachary's eyes. "Go away! That's a lie. I don't ever want to play with you again." Zachary jumped down from the tree and ran towards Jim. Jim's eyes widen and then dropping the stick he made it to the door of the funernal home before Zachary could reach him and disappeared inside.

Zachary stayed outside the door. Waves of naseau overtook him and he retched on the front steps.

"Oh baby, my baby, I am so sorry." Abby sat on landing unmindful of the black sheath she was unused to wearing and gathered her son in her arms and cradled him rocking gently. Zachary's small chest convulsed as he gasped for breath between each sob.

"We are okay. We'll be okay." Abby didn't know if she said this for Zachary's sake as much as for her own. When the crying lessened, she led Zachary to their car and carefully belted him in the back seat. They drove home in silence to the farm house they had shared with Oscar and would no longer.

Untitled Fiction - Zachary's story

Zachary sat on the tree branch of the old oak that shadowed the funeral home. Usually his emerald green eyes sparkled but today they were red and puffy, his dark black hair was mussed and dirt streaked down his cheek. He didn't care that his suit was ripped. He hated all this, being here with Oscar on display. He couldn't accept Oscar's death. It wasn't fair. Oscar was everything to him. A nine year old boy shouldn't have to lose his father.

"He wasn't your real dad."

Zachary looked down in the direction of the voice. "What are you talking about?" He asked.

Jim, Zachary's 7 year old cousin, looked up at him. "Everybody knows Oscar wasn't your father. Your mom went off somewhere right before she and Oscar were going to get married. Then she came back and you were born just a couple of months later."

"How do you know? You weren't around. You're younger than I am." Zachary said defensively.

"I heard my mom and dad talking about it last night after they thought I was asleep. Have you looked in a mirror lately? You don't even look anything like Oscar."

Zachary thought about this for a moment. Oscar was tall, blond with blue eyes. He had that big husky farmer build. Zachary was the opposite. His dark hair, green eyes, and slight build smaller than all the other nine year old he new was a contrast to the man, he had always thought of his father. Could Jim be right?

"That's cause I take after my mom," Zachary said hesitantly knowing that he didn't share that many characteristics with his mom either.

"Right, whatever you want to think." Jim picked up a stick and innocently pointed it at Zachary. "Hey, wanna play army?"

Untitled Fiction - The Protest Part III

As Ayla and Ezekial made their way towards the Washington Monument, the sidewalk became more dense with people. They were surrounded by all kinds of people. Some were teenagers like themselves, but others was older dressed like their parents. Ezekial even thought he saw the mother of one of his classmates from school across the parkway. He carefully steered Ayla in the opposite direction. There was no way he wanted this to get back to his parents.

Walking on, Ezekial began to see the immensity of this protest. People talked among themselves as they crowded together along sidewalks and park benches. Some held signs high over their heads. The smell of pot wafted through the air and Ezekial had to be careful not to bump into people who floated by as in a daze. This was nothing like what Ezekial thought the protest would be like. For a moment, Ezekial felt a tightness across his chest and noticed that steadying his breathing took a deliberate effort. Unconsciously, he grabbed Ayla's hand and tried to walk faster to an area of grass that was still surprisingly open. Ayla didn't seem to mind holding hands and Ezekia found that reassuring. Suddenly, Ayla dropped Ezekial's hand and started waving. "There's my friends," said Ayla. Ayla grabbed Ezekial's arm and pulled him towards a group of teens holding signs.

"Get out now!" yelled one of the girls. She looked a bit like Ayla but the rage in her voice could be seen in the wrenching expression across her face. For moment Ezekial thought she was talking to him. Then he realized that she was shouting as part of the protest. He hadn't thought to bring any signs. She seemed to be really into the protest. Then just as quickly, her face relaxed. "You have to yell once in a while. Otherwise, people don't think you are serious about demo-ing." The rest of the group didn't seem that concerned about demonstrating though. Three others sat under a tree and a fourth person lay flat on his back completely focused on smoking. One of the people sitting strummed a guitar but Ezekial didn't recognize what he was playing.

Untitle Fiction - The protest Part II

The pretty girl laughed. Ezekial was fascinated by the way the light sparkled beneath her long lashes.
"Hmmm. . . since you are Z, I'll be something at the beginning of the alphabet. Let me think . . . A my name is Alice. No that is too ordinary."
"You could just go by A or, what no, how about Ayla? It almost sounds like "I lie." You know since that isn't your real name."
"Ayla? I think I like it."
"okay, then Ayla, what's a nice girl like you doing at a protest like this?" Ezekial winced at how corny that line must have sounded. "She probably thinks I am a real dork," he thought to himself.
Ayla giggled, "That's not a very original line."
"I know," Ezekial replied. It's just . . . you take my breath away and I feel a bit muddled inside."
"I do that to you? No one has ever told me anything like that before." Ayla blushed and glanced down at her feet then started to walk down the sidewalk.
Ezekial kept pace.
"You know, I am here to protest the war. I should get going," Ayla whispered.
"But that's where I am going, too. Let's walk together."
"Okay, but no personal questions. Let's keep the mysterious aura going. I kinda of like pretending to be someone I'm not. It makes being away from home a little easier."
"Is home far away? Oops! I didn't mean to pry. Where would Ayla be from if she was a real person?" Ezekial liked this. He wouldn't have to reveal his age or that he was still in school under his parents' thumb.
Ayla thought for a moment. "Berkley. Ayla is a student there and hitch hiked all the way here to you."
Ezekial blushed again. He was entranced and ready to follow Ayla anywhere.
"

Untitled Fiction - The protest

"Hey, you're cute! What's your name?" Ezekial looked over at the girl standing next to him. A flush came over him and he stuttered a reply. "My family calls me Zee. It stands for . . ."

"Wait, don't tell me. Zee is so cute and if we are arrested we won't give our real names anyway."

Ezekial pulled himself together. He couldn't believe this pretty girl was flirting with him. "Well, what name are you going by for today?"

Untitled Fiction - Zee's story

"Zee, come down here right now!" Ezekial ignored his mother's call.

"Ezekial Joshua Stein, move it, now! Don't make me come up to get you!"

"Man, Zee, you are in so much trouble! Mom knows all about you skipping school and that bogus cover-up about staying over at Ralph's house. She called there this morning to piok you up for your dental appointment."

Ezekial sat up slowly on his bed. His parents didn't understand him. The war was wrong! Why didn't they see that someone had to protest it. Someone had to let the politicians know the public wouldn't stay for it any longer. And even though he was only 14, he looked older than his age. No one at the protest thought he was a kid. They just accepted that he was one of the them. In a way, he understood that his parents had a right to be upset. He had lied to them, but they weren't going to let him join the protest. He really meant to be back last night. He was going to stay at Ralph's. It's just . . . well . . . Ezekial didn't remember everything about the night before. He had gotten caught up in moment. But one thing he did remember was the girl he met. Long brown hair, green eyes, tanned skin. She seemed so fragile. She needed protection. That's why he had gone back to the campsite with her. He'd shared his granola bars with her but that wasn't much. They were both pretty hungry still. He didn't know what to do when someone passed the joint to him. He didn't want her to think he was lame and so he puffed. It was just like a cigarette. He didn't understand why anyone thought grass was so cool. It didn't make him feel any different. He had felt so relaxed with the girl.

Untitled Fiction - Abby's story

I asked my mother again when I was 13.
“Why do you keep asking me this? It was the 60’s. Everyone did weird stuff in the 60’s. I wasn’t a slut. I ran away from home to protest the war. I came back.”
“But you have to remember something more specific about what happened.”
“Listen, Sweetie, Zach, we were camping in the Rockville Creek Park. We had marched through Washington D.C. outside the White House. We didn’t have any money and we didn’t have much food, but someone had a little pot. There were a lot of people. I didn’t know about getting high. I was feeling lonely and hungry.”
“Was that the night it happened?”
“Why do you persecute me this way? Do you know how it makes me feel that I conceived you and I can’t tell you the facts? I don’t know the facts. I love you. I came home and I had you and I love you and I have stayed here to take care of you and did I tell you I love you?”

The Dream

Someone once told me that you don’t have to be afraid in dreams of dying because you will always wake up before you actually pass away. But, I used to dream about dying in an elevator. In the dream, I am walking into this building I think is in South America – some repressive country. I know because there are all these uniformed soldier kind of guys carrying semi-automatic machine guns. Anyway, this man and I had been summoned for an interrogation. Dreams are strange about the details that you get to remember. I don’t remember his name but I know that I had slept with him many times. I know that he is a photo journalist documenting the atrocities of repressive governments. I see his face in my mind’s eye – he is tall, may 6’4”, his hair is blond and thinning and a little bit curly, his eyes are blue like the sky on a sunny day, not grayish blue like it is going to rain. He has one of those classic Greek noses, long and patrician. His lips are long and thin but not pinched.

I have been working with the poor here distributing food and vitamin supplements for the children in the ghetto made of cardboard and tin sheets thrown up to form rudimentary walls for houses. I know that I love him. I even know that he doesn’t love me in the same way. Anyway, we walk into this elevator and I reach out for his hand. His palms are sweaty and his fingers tighten and then loosen, tighten and then loosen, and we let go or our hands momentarily in order to turn around to face the door. We hear that spraying sound machine guns make as the bullets fly through the air and then time stops and you know this is the end and you see your body fall to the ground and you know that something has changed but there is all this confusion. I remember hovering over my body still tied to it like with some kind of astral string thing tethering me to my body and I feel a pulling up and away but I am not sure I want to go because I can tell this man I loved is resisting, trying to stay alive when there is no use and I want to help him let go and come with me but I couldn’t do that even in life. What made me think I could do it in death? I float towards a light. I had this dream over and over and over.
One day while trying to find the right train to board in a Boston subway I see this man. I don’t recognize that he is the man from my dream right away. He is looking for the same train line I am. He asks me awkwardly if I know where I am going and we, naive tourists that we are, find the right platform and we board together, sit together. He is a photo journalist from Canada. He is in Boston just for a few days on his way to South America. I am on my way to meet a friend for lunch. I am in Boston to attend a national conference on volunteering with peace organizations. I feel nervous because I am starting to remember the dream.
My stop is announced and I panic. I rush to get off so that I don’t miss meeting my friend. Our hands touch briefly but they don’t tighten, they don’t grip, and I remember that he won’t ever love me the way I want to be loved. I feel the pull to stay on the train with him but I break away saying good-bye quickly and I hope that he will follow me but he doesn’t.
And when I turn to face the door I had just crossed I see the knowing look in his eyes. He understands and I understand that a choice has just been made here. I never had the dream again. I never questioned why.

A loss of employment

Rain fell in cold splatters against the window pane. "I am not turning on the heat yet," I decided. "I can put on another sweater. 62 isn't so bad." Honestly, I wasn't sure I would be able to pay my electric bill if I started worrying about heat. For some heat might be a necessity. For me at this moment, it was a luxury, something I would have to do without - at least for a couple more months. I had been unemployed for 5 months now. I had looked for work but without much hope. Afterall, who wanted to hire a 50 something woman with health problems? I had budgeted my savings carefully but now I was starting to get worried. I owned my home, but real estate taxes were coming due. If my utility bills increased, my budget would be strained to say the least.

There were days when I hadn't needed to worry so much. Jack was still alive. He had placed a heater in the pond in the backyard to keep it clear for wildlife that might need water through the winter. When I found the $400.00 electric bill, I nearly hit the roof. Kindness to nature is lovely, but even in our best times, a $400.00 electric bill was excessive. Jack had laughed it off. "You should spend when you have it," he had said. Now that Jack was gone, I remembered that time with mixed emotions. "You were such a good person! Why am I so upset that we didn't set more aside for our retirement?"

Alice sat down on the sofa and pulled a comforter over her legs. Job hunting was exhausting and she needed a break from filling out applications. She reached over to the side table and accidently knocked over the stack of books she had been meaning to get to. "I can't do anything right today," she thought to herself. She had to throw off the blanket to get up to pick up the books. Thoughtfully, she looked at the titles. A Guide to Retirement "I wonder when I picked up this book?" Alice opened the cover. Inside the front cover was an inscription: "Dear Alice, the love of my life, I knew you would find this book eventually when you finally got around to reading all the books you've set aside for retirement. Know that I love you and look forward to our retirement years together. Love, Jack."

Alice sighed deeply. Jack had loved her, more than she was capable of loving him back. Now he was gone and all their retirement plans were for naught. She was able to get through each day not thinking about him, planning out ways to survive . . . yet, he still found ways to reach out to her even now. "Oh, Jack, I miss you so much!"