Follow Me  on my Socials
  Kenneth Lawson
  • Kenneth Lawson Home
  • Story Index
  • About
  • Contact The Author
  • Science Fiction Stories
  • Detective & Crime Stories
  • Odd & Unusual Stories
  • Time Travel Stories
  • The Writing Life
  • Thrillers
  • Fantasy
  • Romance
  • 500 Words
  • Family Ties

Witches?

10/31/2022

0 Comments

 
Picture
​He eyed me sideways across the bar.
“Hit me again.” He didn't need anymore. I could smell the beer from my side of the bar.
 I poured him another glass and slid it over to him.
“Tell me again. What happened?” 
 Ross Carmichael took another swallow of beer and burped loudly.
“I told you.
“Tell me again.”
“Oh Hell, one more time isn’t going to make it any better.” He shrugged. “All Right. I was in the woods, You know, north of town…”
I nodded. I knew those woods well, as they had been used as a training ground during the war. Part of a nearby military base then but abandoned these days.Now was a prime hang-out spot for local kids looking for a place to hide to smoke or do drugs. More than a few kids had been found there drunk or half-dead from drugs. It had been the suspected scene of several rapes and assaults. The place was getting a bad reputation.
“Ross, what were you doing there?”
I told you I was following a bird. You know a dame.” I nodded.
“Who?”
“Linda Warner. I was hired to follow her by her ole man. He thought she was stepping out.” 
“Was She?”
“Hell, I don’t know. I followed her into the woods, down that little path from the back road. I lost her for a second but caught up to her around the end. She was there all right, but she wasn't alone. There were three of them, Witches. I swear. They had hats and black dresses, just like you see in the pictures. And they had black pot— A BIG ONE.” Ross swallowed the rest of his beer and burped loudly again, this time spitting out beer on the table.
“Ross, you’ve had enough. What next?” I pulled the half-empty beer mug from him and wiped the table with an old rag. 
“They saw me. And The next thing I knew, I was in the pot. They were going to boil me. ALIVE !!” His eyes grew wider the before. 
“And?” I prompted again.
“They were swearing and saying some weird stuff, and I could feel the water getting hotter. My feet and legs were already too hot. I swung at one, hit her, and she swore and cursed me. They grabbed me and tried to hold me in the pot, but I managed to push them away and, in the process, tipped the pot off the fire. Water went every, and I crawled out of the pot and ran. I could hear them screaming and chasing me until I got to the edge of town.
“Okay, you had a bad time with some supposed witches. What do you want me to do?”
“Come with me. Let's find those witches and kill them.”
“You know, if you pissed them off that bad, they’ll find you.”
Ross blinked hard at the thought. He clearly hadn’t thought of that. “So?”
“So, you aren’t not safe. even here in town.”
 “How they going to find me here?
“It's not hard.”
 I nodded toward the door as Linda Warner and her two friends entered the bar.
Ross Carmichael looked at them, then at me, and fainted, falling off the barstool.
Linda smiled, “You’d think he’d seen a witch or something.” She and her friends sat at the bar, and she smiled again. “Pour us a drink.”

0 Comments

Before I Met Her

1/26/2022

0 Comments

 
Picture
​She had been dead for forty years when I met her.

I digress. I met her record in a vintage record store. Digging through a sea of old records looking for a gem in an ocean of old vinyl recordings in every genre you could think of, was my hobby. I found her. Lorena Day.

In theory, once sorted into artist and genre, the albums in the bins were a jumble after years of people picking through them. I stumbled over the record where it shouldn’t be. I had heard of Day and that she was good, so when I found the record, and it appeared playable, I grabbed it and added it to the stack I already had.

Once home, I placed her record on my turntable and hoped for the best. Buying a used record is a bit of a crapshoot as sometimes the grooves look good, but it’s not damaged. I’ve purchased records that looked perfect and then turned out scratchy.

Her album played as well as it looked.

Sitting back in my chair, I closed my eyes as Day’s voice filled the room. For the next twenty minutes, I was in her world. Her voice was butter smooth, with the passion of her life. The base and background musicians filled the gaps in the music beautifully. After I played the second side, I played the whole thing again.

Fast forward through a few years, and I learned about her life and collected all of her records I could find. I was even going as far as paying too much for copies online and buying reissues of her seminal records.

I thought I knew everything there was about her. That is until I ran into her granddaughter at a vintage record store. When I pulled an album of Day’s from a bin, she spoke to me.

“You a fan of Lorena Day?”

I glanced down at the record in my hand. “I am, and I was missing this one from my collection.”

The young woman looked embarrassed. “It’s good to see someone enjoying her music. Lorena Day was my grandmother.”

This was my chance to learn more about my favorite jazz singer. I decided to be forward. “I’m Daniel James. I’ve become a huge fan of Day. I—I wonder if you would like to join me for coffee. I’d like to know more about your grandmother.”

To my surprise, she nodded. “I would like that. I’m Melissa Gordon, and I’ve been trying to learn more about her myself.” 

That coffee turned into many more afternoons. Melissa, who reminded me of a younger version of her grandmother, told me stories about her career that never made it into the books. We spent hours discussing Day’s records, and I became increasingly intrigued with the singer. 

It wasn’t until Melissa’s mother died that we learned more about Lorena Day. At one of our coffee meetings, she asked me if I would like to visit the house where Lorena spent her last days. I enthusiastically said yes. 

The tiny house sat on the outskirts of the urban jungle we called home. Melissa’s parents divorced, and she had been somewhat estranged from her mother and grandmother. Now that both were gone, the house became hers. 

We entered the house, and Melissa led me to her grandmother’s room. We were shocked to find the bedroom as her grandmother likely left it when she died. Photos of her performing lined the walls, along with a few solid-gold records awards she had received. 

Melissa stood in the middle of the room. “My father allowed me to visit occasionally, but I was never allowed in this room. It smells like her even now. There was always the scent of lavender about her.” 

I started to open a drawer out of curiosity but held back. Melissa laughed. “Please, you may know my grandmother better than I do. Please look anywhere you want.”

To say that standing in the same room that my idol lived in, surrounded by the things she’d touched and used, was not weird would be a lie. There was an odd sense of awe and fear I couldn’t put my finger on. I hesitantly opened drawers and glanced inside them as Melissa went through a chest. It was her closet that called to me. It was a sliding door affair, with the sliding doors covering one side or the other. 

I slid open one door to find clothing cramped together tight on their hangers. One side contained everyday house dresses, coats, and sweaters. On the other side, a collection of evening gowns, many I recognized from her album covers and the films I had found of her performances. 

From casual to glittered heels, shoes covered the closet floor, but what caught my eye was a stack of shoeboxes. Some contained shoes, others odd and ends, but buried in the back was a shoebox tied with a string. It seemed unique, somehow like it had resisted the assault of the other boxes piled on it left to gather dust. 

I pulled the box out, and Melissa and I sat on the bed. I carefully untied the string and opened the box with a bit of fanfare. Inside were several packets of letters, each neatly tied together with the same string. 

For a minute, I didn’t dare touch them. I recognized the scrawl on the envelopes as belonging to her, having collected Day’s autographs. 

Melissa sat staring at the box as if she didn’t want to touch it. I was also hesitant even to touch them, but one of us had to do it.

“May I?” 

She nodded yes and added, “Let’s go to the kitchen, and I’ll make tea.” I took the box and followed her. 

We drank tea for the next few hours and read the long-forgotten letters. We became part of her world and how she struggled with her fame. Her early years as a singer were a struggle, picking up gigs where she could get them. We learned about the people she met, some who helped her, others who took advantage of her with each letter. She had loved a man deeply once, and he betrayed her, and we could feel her pain as she wrote about her lost love. 

What Melissa and I treasured the most were the photographs that were also in the box. Candid photos of her as a young singer, some with the big bands she sang with, some with a man who we assumed she loved, some as she got older. 

I had heard pain mature in her voice as she got older, and now I knew why. Melissa and I decided to keep her memories private for now but write a book about her life one day. 

Now, as I listen to her music, her voice fills my soul with her passion. I understand her now more than I did before I met her. 

0 Comments

Passing

4/22/2020

0 Comments

 
Picture
It was there in the closet. 
Where it had been for years.
But now, it seemed surreal. 
The old violin case sat on a high shelf, tucked away many years. Music once played on the instrument inside flooded his mind. It had been years since he had heard the last musician to play this violin, his grandfather, the legendary violinist Raymond J. Reynolds. 
His mind wandered back over the decades, flooded with the distant memories and family lore that he had heard since he was barely more than a baby. His grandfather learned to play the violin as a child, and by the time he was a teenager, he was playing sets with a wide variety of musicians and styles. Over the years, he had worked with musicians from Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, and many others. He was often a featured violinist with symphony orchestras, and in the later years of his career, headlining concerts. 
Grandpa’s breakthrough had been when he had taken a classic Miles Davis tune and arranged it for the violin. He remembered the night his grandpa premiered the piece. He was standing backstage watching. The concert was over, grandpa had taken his final bows, and the stage went dark.
Then a spotlight came on. His grandfather stood at center stage, accompanied not by the orchestra but by a pianist, bass, saxophonist, and drummer. He started playing. The audience gasped as they recognized the piece. From that moment on, “The other Miles” became his moniker. A new phase in his career began that night. He recorded several hit records of his original compositions and arrangements.
But that was another lifetime ago. In the last few years, arthritis and old age begin to take their toll on him. It had been years since grandpa had played the violin as his fingers were too gnarled and stiff to play. He continued to teach and lecture and compose, but even with computer programs to play the notes for him, it wasn’t the same as hearing the notes coming from his own hands. 
Grandpa spent the last few years in a nursing home requiring around the clock care. His mind was slowly leaving without him, but somewhere in the depths of it, the music always found its way out. He had insisted when he went into the home, bringing a turntable and small speakers with him. His record collection vast, so he kept his favorite records with him. When we visited, we would bring a new record or two for him to enjoy. The staff was wonderful since he couldn’t handle the records or the turntable any longer, always taking special care when they played them for him. His nurses often repeated his favorite mantra, “The only music worth listening to was on vinyl.” 
He opened the case and lifted the violin from its velvet resting place. The feel of the instrument in his hands seemed natural, and it was as he had played his younger days. But he knew he was never as good as his grandfather, and he never would be. He could play the notes and make the noise, but he couldn’t make the music.  His sister, on the other hand, could make the music. She had played with their grandpa in her younger years. There were tapes and videos of them playing, but she had retired from playing many years ago.
The violin itself looked almost new. Exact for the small amount of dust that had managed to creep inside the case over the years. He knew it would need new strings and be re-tuned. 
And Now.
And Now? 
Hell, he didn’t know. 
His grandfather had passed quietly in the night, a favorite record playing softly in the background as he drifted off to sleep.
The minster called him not long after his grandfather passed and asked that he bring the violin to display the funeral next to the casket. His sister had requested it. He replaced the violin in its case and took it to the funeral home. 
~~~
Four days later, he sat in the front pew, Linda, and her family next to him, as the room began to fill. His grandpa was widely known and respected in music, as well as in business and life. He had expected a large turnout. His grandpa had told him before his mind deserted him completely. When you live to almost 100 years old, You meet a few people along the way.
The late Raymond J. Reynolds lay in the open casket in front of the church, dressed in his finest tuxedo. An outfit most have seen him in one time or another in one of his concerts.
He had expected to see the violin on display next to the casket. It wasn’t there. He was about to ask Linda when the minister took his place behind the pulpit.
The minister began the service with a prayer, then began to talk about his grandfather’s life. As he listened to the minister tell about his years as a struggling musician, his rise to popularity and influence on future generations of musicians of all varieties, he forgot about the violin.
 As the service was winding down, the minister paused as if he was stalling for time. Finally, he spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special tribute to Mr. Reynolds.
Ms. Linda Reynolds, Raymond’s granddaughter, would like to play a piece on her grandfather’s violin to honor him in honor of him with his violin. 
He realized that Linda had left the pew a few minutes before crying. He thought she had gone to compose herself, but now he knew why. She walked onto the stage with their grandfather’s violin. 
It had been years since she’d had played, yet she stood in front of several hundred people wearing her best black evening gown and playing his violin. She played their grandfather’s most famous pieces and some of his favorites and played as well as he had. There was not a dry eye in the place when the minster said final prayers and dismissed the service. 
He met her in the back of the church after everyone had left. She handed him the violin. “Thank you for dropping this off here. It was easier. The minister offered to take it to the restorer for me. They were kind enough to replace the strings and get it ready very quickly for me. I wanted to surprise.”
He handed her the violin. “No, you keep it. You deserve this far more than I do. All I ask is that you keep playing the music.” He couldn’t say more.
A thousand other thoughts crowded his mind as he tried to explain to himself why he could never play as Linda could. She had inherited his talent and would carry their grandfather’s legacy forward. 
He would always have the music.


 

​​

0 Comments

The Family Trunk

12/31/2019

0 Comments

 
Picture
The old trunk had been sitting in the closet for decades. 

He knew about the box in the vaguest terms, but only that it had existed, and he’d had even vaguer memories of seeing it. He’d heard it talked about by older relatives all who were gone now.

He dragged it out into the floor. He couldn’t make out any of the writing on the small label that tacked to the front of it, just under the lock. He lifted it to the nearest table. It was heavy. He wasn’t sure if the weight was because of the trunk itself, or what was in it. Although he suspected most of the weight was the trunk, which appeared constructed of solid wood. 

Shining a  proper light on the label, he was barely able to make out a name and date. The name seemed to that of his grandfather, Robert Brown Strong. The date looked to be early 1900’s, around the turn of the century. He had vague memories of the trunk. He’d seen it when he was much younger, as a small child, but didn’t remember anything about it.

Locked, he assumed there had to be a key somewhere. He rummaged through the drawers of his grandfather’s desk and found an old set of small keys. He’d never seen them before, but he’d never went through the old desk that thoroughly.

To his surprise, one of the keys fit. After carefully jiggling the key, the lock finally opened. The cast-iron hinges squeaked in rebellion, but after much resistance, he lifted the lid.

The light from the lamp off to his side cast a shadow over the insides, making it seem darker than it was. He shifted the light, which gave him a clear view of the inside of the small trunk. The amount of dust inside a sealed box was surprising. He sneezed and coughed as the dust stirred from its resting place of decades. Finely he unearthed several small objects. One was a small notebook, and the other was a pocket watch and various small pieces of jewelry. Now covered in dust and lint and general grossness, he couldn’t tell what they were.

Picking each piece out carefully, he laid them on the desk, in the order that he’d found them. When the box was empty of everything save the dust that didn’t float up into his face and cover his hands, he placed the trunk over on the side table.

He sat down and looked over the collection, removing dust as he fingered each item. He dared not be too aggressive in removing the dust for fear of what too much rubbing or handling could do to the fragile pieces.

One of the pocket watches seemed familiar. He had hazy memories of the trunk opened by big hairy hands. He seemed to be eye level with it, which meant he’d been pretty small. Something else as playing up in his mind, but he couldn’t quite see it. The memory was a feeling or a shadow of some kind. He tried to force it to his mind’s eye, but it wouldn’t come. 

Setting the watch down, he picked up the ring. It too carried memories. Those memories were brighter. Then it occurred to him. The brightness he remembered was the sun. A bright summer day and a pretty hand wearing the ring was holding his smaller hand. He remembered more as the memories came in flashes, His grandfather, standing at a station of some kind, holding the pocket watch in his hand the chain dangling between it and his vest. 

Shaking his head, he lay down the jewelry and stood up.  Memories that he didn’t want to remember kept rushing back. Pacing back and forth in his grandfather’s old office, he knew what was next. 

He closed his eyes, and for a briefest of seconds, the eyes of his mind flashed the shadow of the train as his mother fell into the track. Seconds later, he remembered landing on the wooden deck next to the track. All they were able to find was his grandfather’s pocket watch, which had broken from the chain as it flew out of his pocket as he jumped to save her. His mother fell under the train, and they only found her hand with the ring on it. 

Pushing the images from his mind, he opened his eyes. This was the twenty-fifth year that they had held a memorial service. And each time it tore him up when he had to speak. He cleared his throat and tucked the watch and ring in his coat pocket. His family was waiting in the parlor for the service to begin, and he knew he wasn’t going to give the speech he rehearsed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in a moment of silence in remembrance of my grandfather, Robert Brown Strong, and my mother, Mary Jeanne Strong. Then I will tell you about the family trunk.”​
​

0 Comments

Leave Sleeping Dolls Lay

8/21/2016

1 Comment

 
                   Ragamuffin, That’s what she looked like. He thought as he put away  the old doll.   It had been in the family for decades. In fact, no one could remember when it had come from. It had always just sort of been there.  Now it had turned up again just after his mother had died.  The more he thought about it. As far back as he could remember. The only time anyone ever found that doll was after someone had died. It would get put in a draw or a closest or other such place and forgotten about.  Sometimes for years, decades. No one would see it. Then someone in the family would die. There it would be. Soon after someone would find it in a closet or drawer, or the like.  They would always assume they the deceased had had it . And they-they had put it away and forgotten about it to be found later.   
Picking it up again he began to really look at it.  It was about a foot tall, made of some sort of cloth, the dress if you could call it that, was a very old style. Simple and  made of rough materials.  The face was sort of drawn on. Basic eyes, and nose and the mouth was no more than a thin line drawn about where the mouth should be.  He sat on the edge of the bed staring down at it for what seemed like several minutes. Then it seemed to move. The eyes started to blink and the mouth seemed to form where they had been nothing but a pencil line. It seemed to be alive in his hand.  The limp material seemed to stiffen up like it had real bones in it, and He could feel a heartbeat in his fingers.  He thought he heard a voice. Then it slowly accrued to him the voice was in his head.  At first, it wasn’t clear what it was saying. But it slowly came into focus in his mind.  It became more real.  
    Suddenly the doll jumped out of his hands. It leaped over onto the bed next to him. It stood as upright and sober as anyone person could. The doll’s features seemed to become more lifelike. He slid back along the length of the bed. Hitting the headboard of the old bed. About then the voices in his head became crystal clear. 
“It’s your turn,” they said.  “My turn?” he thought. Before he could speak the words.  The voice continued.  “Yes, Your turn to die. I’ve been waiting for a very long time to meet you. And now you’ve come, you're a disappointment I like all the rest have. So you're useless to me.” Questions filled his mind. But before he could form them. He felt the uncontrollable urge to look out the window.    He went to the window he was 10 stories up in the old brick tenement house. 
 Before he could stop himself he opened the window. The last thing he saw as he fell out the window was the dolls evil face laughing at him. 
A week later they found the old doll tucked in a steamer trunk that he had put in storage more than a decade before he had killed himself.   


1 Comment

A Small Man

12/20/2015

0 Comments

 
           He was a small man. He had always been a small man. Small in every way. He'd had small dreams, A small life. A small job.
     People ignored him, when he was a kid, he was the one everyone picked on .       In school, the teachers never picked on him, because he didn't stand out in the classroom. They seemed to feel that because he was small, he wasn't smart. They ignored him, when he called on being wrong. Being small he had taken a lot of abuse. The end result was he was small, he thought and dreamed small.
     Than he looked in the mirror one day. He was suddenly tired of being small. Being naturally small he'd pretty much let life run over him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had slowly realized that it was his fault he had a small life. It was time to reinvent his life.
 That started with his wardrobe. He went through his closest.  Except for a very few pieces he really liked everything else went to the Goodwill.  The next stop on the way to the men's cloths store was the barber. There he had the barber give him a while new look, When he left he sported a nice flattop haircut, nicely trimmed beard.
     He spent the rest of he day at the cloths store.  There he selected , a completely new set of cloths, and a new style. He went back to the basics, classics.  He topped it off with a new fedora hat, and trench coat.  The bill was huge. But he didn't care.  
     For the first time in his life he didn't feel small.  His next stop was his work.     The looks he got when he walked in wearing the new outfit were priceless.  In all the years he worked there, he had never been in anything other than a very old, ill fitting suit, and crappy old hat. all of which should have been dumped decades ago. 
     He walked into his boss's office. Laying his new briefcase down on the desk, took off the new hat.
His boss barely glanced up at him. Then he did a double take. 
The look on his boss said it all. In his wildest dreams he never had seen him look that good.
     "Mr. Connery. I want a raise. I've been working here for almost twenty years, I've been doing mine and your jobs and sometimes even more than that. For all of those years you've taken me for granted. and pretty much ignored me, unless you needed my help, and me to bail you out of a mess. That stops now.  
You give me a raise, double my current salary, and a promotion, A promotion, I might add you promised me several years ago."
     Mr. Connery, just sat looking up at him. He was speechless for a second. He barely recognized the small man  standing before him. He  tried to think quickly. He realized everything he'd said was right.
     "You want what?" he asked sarcastically. He  decided to make a show of standing up to him. He really wasn't sure how to take the new version of his old employee. 
    "Its really simple you start treating me as a equal, and giving  me the respect I deserve, Or I leave. I start my own firm, and take all of my clients with me. After all the years I've been here, I know where all the bodies are buried , so to speak, I know how much you've skimming off to your off shore account.  And about you and Mrs. Lewis. " He paused a moment to let it sink in.  


Mr. Connery  sat back down his his chair. Suddenly the man before him looked ten feet high. He knew if he  pushed him he'd do exactly what he said he would do. 
     "By the way I quit.  There will be a letter in the mail going to the proper  authorities  detailing all of the things I've just mentioned. and more.  And I am taking all my clients with me.  I've already talked to them and they've agreed to move with my to my new firm. 
 He turned and walked back through the offices. He went to his desk, There he plugged in a thumb drive. started downloading all his files. While that was working he cleared out his desk. collecting all his papers, and every little thing he had.  The computer beeped. He unplugged the drive from the USB port,  Putting it in his pocket. With all of his papers and files and other stuff in his new briefcase. He took one single piece of paper, and wrote on it "I Quit" With the whole office staff watching, including Mrs. Lewis, and Mr. Connery, he walked out the door. 
     He was never a Small Man again.




​
0 Comments

A Life Well-Lived

9/17/2015

0 Comments

 
           Time was all he needed was his old guitar. He would get up on the stage with just his old Martin guitar and sing his heart out.

 People loved it, and him, So much that now he  had long since abandoned his street corner, His days as a street performer where long gone. Theses days he traveled in a million dollar bus, with all   of  the comforts of home.  And than some.  He now had a entourage of 100 people on his payroll.  They did everything  from take care of his bus, set up stage, lighting sound, and equipment, and things he didn't even know  existed.

   Sometimes, when he lies in the back of his bus drifting off to sleep, his mind goes back to the old days. Back when he barely had money to eat, and slept wherever he could find a warm dry place. back than it was literally him and his old guitar.   

     At one time he knew who his friends were. People who supported him, feed him, let him barrow money, found him gigs to play.  Now he could never completely trust anyone,  Everyone from the old days was gone.  To the outside world, he'd made it. But had he really ? Made what? A fortune doing what he loved, playing and singing, yes, he had that, but what about a family?   A wife, kids and extended family? He had none.    All of theses things and more weighted heavy on his mind over many months.

      One day he just walked  off the stage, out the back door and disappeared into the night.  That was over 20 years ago.

     The mystery of his sudden disappearance, and why has become the stuff of  legend.   Over the years many tales have circulated about why he left his life.  No one knows the truth.  That is, except him and his family.   Somewhere in Virginia, he lives with his wife, and 6  kids and grand-kids.  He works in a a local hardware store, hunts and fishes, and  spend quality time with  his grand-kids.  Sometimes that plays his old songs and they  have no  idea  that's their grandpa their listening to. 

     Once in a while when its late at night, he gets the old Martin out and plays.  Now as he enter his twilight years, he knows his life has been well lived.


0 Comments

Ode to the Kitchen Table

9/7/2015

0 Comments

 
The  old  kitchen table had long since seen better days.  Over the years,  many meals had been prepared and served on it. There were scratch marks and gouges in the top from various family dinners that had included many turkeys, and hams and other large pieces  of meat. Unfortunately not all were cut with the efficiently of a master chef. Most were  , shall we say, unceremoniously mangled into bite size portions.  Which were served to the various family members attending the event.

     The old table had been the scene of many hours of homework. The homework ranged over the years from simple spelling words to world history, and many topics in between. Three generations of children had eaten and done homework on the table over the years.   Oh the games that it had seen. From Go fish, to Yahtzee, and on more then few occasions poker, bridge, gin, and many board games. Stories had been related over the meals and games, memories had been made, first dates, last dates, fights, making up, and one more then a few Christmas secrets had been told across the table.

     Today , it sat in he garage, in the far back corner, waiting to be first used as a work bench, and probably as is the usual manner of course, to be piled high with junk, no one knows what to do with, or wants to get rid of.  

     Eventually, it will be rediscovered under a pile of stuff that should have been tossed decades ago.  The new owners will oh and ah over it. Marvel at the quality workmanship, and the fine quality of the wood.  The scratches and gouges and various stains in the top, will be noted.  There will be a discussion of weather to leave the table as is, or have it refinished.   It will be decided that the table should stay the way it is. So the table will be moved back into the house, placed back in the kitchen, and used again for another  several generations of the new  family. The old table would be a rabble rouser if it could talk.  The family history  the old kitchen table  has seen and will see with the new family would be enough to fill several books,





​
0 Comments

Time; Both Friend & Foe

7/21/2015

0 Comments

 
   Time can either be your best friend or your worst  enemy . The weather can also be your best friend, or your worst enemy. 

His mind wandered back to a week decades ago.when time and weather had played important roles in world history. 

     The scene is England 1944, end of May, beginning of June. His boss General Eisenhower , was putting together the greatest military battle that had ever been fought until that time. Months had been spent planing every detail,  Nothing had been left to chance, Security was impossibility tight, The slightest hint of what was planned would have ruined the plan before they could ever begin. Somehow they had kept it all together. Though months of secret training, Deceptions on a scale that had never been attempted, all had worked. All came down to this one week. 

     The General had all the pieces in play. all was set to go. He could almost feel the tension today, as he thought back to the  headquarters in England when the General had given the final orders to go.  The weather had been playing havoc with the plans for at least a month before, Finely there a break in the weather predicted. So it was then or never. They went.

      He let his mind roam through his ancient memories. The looks on the faces of the general and staff who had nothing left to do but wait. Wait for word from the field commanders as to weather their gamble had paid off. While is is hard to put to the invasion together to work with generals who all though they should be in charge, and get men and equipment ready and still keep Operation Overlord a national secret. That seemed easy, compared to he next few hours of waiting, and praying for successful end to the Longest day.

     It came, the end of the Longest Day, Over 9,000, Allied soldiers were either killed or wounded, But in the end they prevailed, and got the job done.  The sense of relief an finely being able to breathe again was  almost palpable. In his minds eye he would remember the rest of the reactions as word came of their success, and now knowing the this was the beginning of the end.

     Yes, time had been both a friend and enemy, throughout his life, many times both at the same time,  But time could not erase his memories of his longest days, many years ago,










​
0 Comments

A Night At the Movies

7/1/2015

0 Comments

 
 The cineplex  has 10 hugmongus screens,   The snack bar was famous for its Frankenfood, some of which was almost editable .

     The various screens showed movies ranging from the classics, to  3rd rate horror flicks, that were carptacular, not to be missed. One screen had home movies.  Dumbfounded debutantes paraded across the  screen, with blank bionic looks giving their lack of usefulness away.  Their only redeeming quality was their bodies, barely covered in tiny  poked dotted bikinis.  If one looked closely they could see the scares from many plastic surgeries.   The glitz was  surpassed only b the stupidly of the whole  thing. Yet people watched, in spite of themselves.

     Meanwhile in other screens the audiences  sat blissfully watching edutainment,  ideally punching emoticans on there handheld devices

When the movies let out, The denizens of the theater,  marched out into their quiet live, completely unaware of the malware that had been implanted in their minds..





This post needs a little explanation.  The prompt this week was  Portmanteau:. 
Which I have admit I had never heard of before.  So some Googling was in order. Here is what they had on the Studio 30 prompt page;
 [noun] the combination of two or more words to create a new word.(examples: bromance, snowpocalypse, brunch, sexting. Use one of these portmanteau or pick one of your own.)

 So I thought it would be fun to see how many I could use in a  story.
0 Comments
<<Previous

    Archives

    October 2022
    January 2022
    April 2020
    December 2019
    August 2016
    December 2015
    September 2015
    July 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    January 2015

    \

    Categories

    All

    RSS Feed

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.