Month: December 2022

CANDLE IN THE WINDOW

The Sicilian Storyteller

One of the first things I noticed about the house across the street was the candle in an upstairs window.

It was December 1980 – two weeks before Christmas – and we had just moved into our new home. My mom quickly located the boxes marked ‘CHRISTMAS LIGHTS’ and put my dad to work decorating outside. When he was done every house on the street was aglow except for the one with the solitary candle. I was fascinated by that candle; it was lit twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

About a week later there was a knock on our front door. Mom answered and I scurried along behind her, anxious to see who was visiting us for the first time. Standing on the front porch was a chubby little old lady with silver hair, twinkling eyes and rosy cheeks and I couldn’t resist blurting out “Are you Mrs. Claus?” She chuckled a bit saying no, she was Mrs. Granger from across the street and had come to bring us an angel food cake as a welcoming gift. Mom introduced herself and invited Mrs. Granger inside but she declined saying “perhaps another time”. Before she left I told her my name was Eleanor and I had just turned ten on December 1. She smiled slightly at us but there was sadness in her eyes.

Mrs. Granger’s angel food cake sat on one of her beautiful Spode Christmas plates. Mom said we should return the plate on Christmas Day brimming with sugar cookies, which is exactly what we did. We rang the bell and mom apologized for showing up unannounced, adding that she hoped we weren’t interrupting her Christmas festivities.

“No, dear. Not at all. I was just preparing myself one of those frozen dinners – turkey, for a special treat.” Mom made polite small talk while I glanced around the living room. There wasn’t a single Christmas decoration in sight, not even a card. A fading ember in the fireplace made me think that Mrs. Granger was probably very lonely.

I suddenly found myself asking the question: “Mrs. Granger, why is there a candle in the window upstairs?”

Mom gave me a withering look as Mrs. Granger slowly walked to the sofa and slumped down. I felt awful when she started crying, dabbing her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. Mom sat next to her and held her hand, not speaking.

In hushed tones Mrs. Granger told us her story: she married late in life and was blessed with a son, Edward. Her husband died in an accident when Edward was three years old and she raised the boy by herself. When the U.S. entered the Vietnam War, Edward enlisted; he was declared MIA on December 1, 1970 and she hadn’t heard a word in the ten years since then. The candle in the window was her way of holding vigil for Edward, steadfastly waiting for any news. We sat together for a few minutes, then Mrs. Granger politely said she wanted to be alone. Silently we left. It was then that I understood why she looked so sad when I told her my birthday; – her son went missing the day I was born.

Two days later mom returned to Mrs. Granger’s. She apologized for the intrusion on Christmas Day and said we hoped she would join us for New Year’s Eve dinner. Mrs. Granger said gently “No, dear. I haven’t celebrated a new year since Edward disappeared.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Granger. Our New Year’s Eve table was set for three, sparkling with mom’s best dishes, silverware and crystal glasses. I sat in the bay window watching the lightly falling snow; then I noticed the candle in the window of Mrs. Granger’s house was not lit.

“Mom!” I gasped. “The candle is out.”

Mom, dad and I walked across the street on leaden feet. Mom rapped softly on the door; we could see a dim glow coming from the fireplace. One more knock and the door opened slightly; Mrs. Granger appeared, her face wet with tears.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Granger?” mom inquired with obvious concern in her voice.

“Oh, my dear! My mind has been preoccupied all day” she replied, her voice trembling. “You see, I received some news today.”

Mrs. Granger turned and walked back inside, leaving the door ajar; apprehensively we followed her. There by the fireplace stood a handsome, smiling soldier; her long-lost son Edward had finally returned home.

We were overjoyed for Mrs. Granger; finally some happiness in the dear old lady’s life. We said our goodbyes and headed for the door.

“Wait, my dears!” Mrs. Granger called out. “There’s something I’ve been waiting a long time to say. Happy New Year to us all!”

We smiled through our tears knowing Mrs. Granger’s deepest wish came true this New Year’s Eve. The candle in the window was out but a new flame burned brightly in her heart. She’d never be lonely again.

NAR © 2018

Mrs. Granger

I’M ONLY SLEEPING

The Sicilian Storyteller

Where am I? What’s happening? I thought I heard screams in the night. Could I have been dreaming?

I’m supposed to be sleeping, waiting for the Spring, but I’m not and it’s too soon to be feeling so warm. My lower extremities are aching as though someone as been tugging on them, but I’m not in pain. Some of my friends have suffered excruciating agony. One day we were together and the next day they were gone; I never saw them again.

My limbs feel a little heavy; am I carrying objects in my outstretched arms? There’s a slight pressure on my head – not terribly heavy but a feeling I am unaccustomed to, like a crown. I can hear faint voices now. It’s hard to make out full sentences but the words sound like “looks beautiful” and “brilliant idea”. What does it all mean? What is a brilliant idea?

I have no clue how much time has passed; I think only a week or so but I have lost all track of time and I’m very tired. I need to sleep.

What is going on now? It feels like I’m being lifted and carried away; I’m afraid. What’s happening to me? I feel like some pressure is being taken off me and I’m being lowered into a hole. I can sense something familiar, something soothing covering my base. I can smell the crisp outdoors and I detect the fragrance of the earth, of fresh soil.

I’m beginning to notice a chill surrounding me; it’s a refreshing and safe feeling and the strange uncomfortable warming sensation is passing. My lower limbs feel like they are bound but I am safe and comfortable – like being enveloped in a soothing blanket of snow. I feel protected, as though in a cocoon.

Thank you for giving me a chance to live by not taking an ax to me. Thank you for digging me out of the ground and keeping me alive. You have given me the chance to rest now and to grow strong under your protective care until winter arrives once again.

It was a joy spending Christmas with you!

I’m not dead; I’m only sleeping.

One of the saddest things is seeing all the dead and forgotten Christmas trees discarded after the season.
Next time you go looking for a Christmas tree, consider buying one with its root ball intact;
you can replant it in your yard
or place it in a pot.
It gave you so much joy
during the holidays;
why not give it a chance to live!

NAR © 2021

THE MISSING PIECE

The Sicilian Storyteller

Born two days before Christmas in 2002 at the same time in the same hospital were two beautiful baby boys. Both had gossamer flaxen hair and skin the color of edelweiss. The nurses marveled at their incredible likeness, remarking in their sing-song Irish accents “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, would ya look at that! These babes could be twins!” 

One baby was born to the king and queen of high society, Carlton and Evelyn Winslow of the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The couple were like bookends – fair skin, blond hair and hazel eyes. The Winslow’s luxurious penthouse was located across the street from Mercy Hospital. Evelyn was having tea with friends in her comfortable library at home when she suddenly went into labor.

The other baby was the illegitimate son of Rosa Guarinos, an impoverished cleaning lady from the slums of Harlem. Her complexion was creamy, hair golden brown and eyes of green like her ancestors from ancient Persia. Rosa was sweeping the floors of Ken’s Tailoring, the little shop in Harlem where she worked when her water broke. Her kindly boss Ken Siegel carefully escorted her to Mercy Hospital.

It was fate that brought these two women from such divergent stations in life to the same hospital on the same winter’s night. Hours later both women had given birth to sons.

Five days later on December 28th the new mothers were discharged from the hospital. Evelyn and Carlton Winslow brought Maxwell home to their posh apartment where his elaborately decorated nursery awaited him. A specially trained nanny took care of Maxwell’s every need while the waitstaff plumped Evelyn’s pillows and served her breakfast in bed. 

Ken drove Rosa and her baby Victor home to her basement apartment in Harlem. He offered his help getting Rosa and Victor settled but she declined saying he had already done so much for them. There was a mattress on the floor in one corner of the basement on which Rosa dozed restlessly while her infant son slept in an old borrowed cradle. The bathroom consisted of a toilet bowl and a sink where Rosa washed herself with a sponge, shivering in the cold December night. She breastfed Victor and cooked simple meals for herself on a hotplate.

The identical babies grew into identical toddlers. The Winslows celebrated Maxwell’s first birthday with a spectacular party at Tavern on the Green attended by their many acquaintances. Rosa and Victor marked his first birthday with a simple cake shared by Ken and a handful of trusted friends. 

Shortly after Victor’s birthday, Ken proposed marriage to Rosa; he had always been in love with her and Rosa knew he was a kind and decent man. She cared deeply for him and believed in time she would grow to love him. They got married and the family moved uptown where Ken had acquired a larger space and expanded his small tailoring shop into a successful men’s clothing store. Their lives improved significantly and they were very content. 

The years went by; Maxwell and Victor were now teenagers, entirely unaware of the other’s existence. Though they lived just two miles apart, the large and busy city allowed them to lead separate lives. They attended different schools and their paths never crossed. They were both happy, well-adjusted boys with many friends yet sometimes they both felt an unusual void in their lives – something neither one could understand or easily dismiss. 

One day between Christmas and the new year Carlton brought Maxwell to Ken Siegel’s shop to buy a new suit for his son’s 18th birthday.

“We’re closing early today, Mr. Winslow – it’s a family matter. I’m sorry but I must ask you to come back tomorrow” Ken stated nervously when Carlton and Maxwell entered the shop.

“Oh, come on, Ken. You always make time for me” replied Carlton in his usual condescending manner. “I brought my son Maxwell in for a suit for his birthday. Are you trying to get rid of us?” 

“I’m sorry but I have something personal to attend to. I really must close now!” Ken insisted. 

But it was too late for just then Victor and Rosa emerged from the back room; they were laughing happily and Rosa held a small cake with a single candle. When the two teenage boys came face to face, a silence fell over the shop. They stared at each other in a strange sort of amused bewilderment, unable to deny or explain their identical appearance. 

Carlton gasped in shock when he saw Rosa and she became faint; they had not laid eyes on each other in a very long time. Ken rushed to Rosa’s side and whispered “I’m sorry, my darling. I tried to get rid of them. I never wanted him to see you or Victor. I failed you.”

Rosa reached up and tenderly caressed her husband’s face, now wet with tears. “Oh, my sweet husband. This day was inevitable and you are not to blame” Rosa replied softly.

Gathering all his courage, Ken stood up proudly and spoke directly to Carlton. “Mr. Winslow, as you know twenty years ago I ran a small tailoring shop in Harlem. Rosa worked as my assistant, sewing and ironing in that tiny shop … but you knew that because you came there often. Eventually I was able to acquire this lovely store and you became one of my regular customers. After Victor was born, I asked Rosa to marry me and we have been together for seventeen years. Mr. Winslow, Victor is my adopted son and he’s very precious to me. I love Victor and Rosa dearly; we are a family. But even someone as self-centered and obtuse as yourself would know at first glance that both Victor and Maxwell are your biological sons.” 

Clearly stunned by this information, Carlton stammered “Rosa, why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?” 

“Because you were married and your wife was also pregnant. You would never have supported us or accepted us as your family” Rosa cried.

“But you deprived me of a son and Victor of a father! I could have provided for him.” Carlton argued.

Ken loudly slammed his hand against the front desk, startling everyone. “Victor is MY son. I am the one who lovingly and happily provided for him and Rosa!” he shouted. “You would never have done so even if you knew about Victor. You and your kind are selfish and spineless; you have money but you have no respect or dignity. Now, I must insist that you leave and never bother us again!”

“Victor” Carlton said haltingly, “I didn’t know. You have to believe I would have done the right thing by you and your mother. You’re a bright boy; surely you can see that.”

Victor simply stared impassively at Carlton, the father he never knew, and said nothing. Finally, when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm. “Mr. Winslow, you know nothing about me. Please do not dare to insinuate yourself into my life or the lives of my parents.”

Victor’s words stung and Carlton was taken aback. “Maxwell” he said angrily. “It’s best we leave here, son. Let’s go home. Now!”  

“No, father. After all I just heard, there’s no way I’m leaving now. You can turn your back and walk away but I can’t” Maxwell replied. “I just found a missing piece of my life. I’m going to stay and get to know my brother, if that’s ok with Mr. and Mrs. Siegel.“

Rosa and Ken looked at each other and nodded in agreement. “You’re always welcome here, Maxwell” said Ken.

Carlton was furious but he made no attempt to reach out to his sons. Instead, he angrily left the store and began walking home, wondering how he would explain this to Evelyn. It wasn’t going to be easy but he’d figure something out. He always did.

NAR © 2019

THE LAST VIOLIN

The Sicilian Storyteller

It wasn’t often that we received a package from Sicily, so when one arrived that Tuesday afternoon between Christmas and the new year of 1964, we were all very excited. 

The family sat around the kitchen table as my mother painstakingly opened the brown paper, being careful not to tear the stamps which my father would place into one of his leather-bound albums. Finally the outer wrapping was removed, revealing a plain white box. My mother slid the cover off the box to find a card sitting atop pillows of tissue paper. Prolonging the excitement, she read the card silently to herself, then aloud, translating into English: 

“Dearest Concetta. We noticed how much you admired this while you were here on vacation. You left without buying it so here it is as a memento of your time spent with us. We hope you enjoy it as much now as you did then. With love – Cousins Paolo and Enza.” 

Slowly, carefully, Mom removed the tissue to reveal the most beautiful music box I had ever seen. It was a miniature violin, made of highly lacquered ebony with mother of pearl inlay. We all sat in wonder as my mother gently wound the music box, then placed it on the table as an ancient Sicilian folk song began to play. It was wondrous and I immediately fell in love. 

Cradling it tenderly in her hands, my mother moved the violin into the living room and placed it on the marble coffee table where it became the glistening centerpiece of the room. 

Several times each day I would wind up the music box to listen to the hauntingly beautiful tune. I never tired of the glorious melody and treated the violin like a treasure, always careful not to over-wind it. I listened, mesmerized, as the music slowed down and the final note was played. It was my delight for many years and I imagined it being mine one day. 

Decades later when my mom passed away, a few of her cherished items were placed in her coffin and buried with her … a small tin of pink sand from Bermuda where she and Dad honeymooned, a little toy horse which belonged to her precious firstborn who passed away at the age of two and, unbeknown to me, the magical violin music box. 

I grieved the passing of my beloved mother. I mourned the loss of that treasured music box … the first, last and only violin I would ever have. But now, during the lull between Christmas and New Year’s Day, I remember that Tuesday in 1964 when that violin entered our lives … and I smile.

NAR © 2017

OUR ‘ENRY

The Sicilian Storyteller

WHILE I KNOW BOXING DAY HAS NOTHING AT ALL TO DO WITH THE ACTUAL SPORT OF BOXING, I THOUGHT SOME OF YOU WOULD LIKE TO READ A POEM I WROTE LAST YEAR. YOU MAY BE SURPRISED, EVEN SHOCKED, TO LEARN THAT BOXING IS NOT MY WHEELHOUSE. NEITHER IS WRITING POETRY SO I HAD TO DO A FAIR AMOUNT OF RESEARCH AND EDITING. BELIEVE IT OR NOT, I HAD A LOT OF FUN IN THE PROCESS AND I LEARNED A LOT. I HOPE YOU ARE EQUALLY ENTERTAINED WHEN YOU READ MY POEM. HAPPY BOXING DAY TO ALL MY FRIENDS UP NORTH AND ACROSS THE POND! 🎁

Commemorated through the region
for his prowess and pugilistic might
was the one and only Henry Cooper,
a champion born and raised for the fight.

He and George were born on the third of May;
the two brawny lads were identical twins.
By the age of fifteen Henry excelled in boxing
with seventy-three out of eighty-four wins.

This proud son of South East London was a giant,
a lefty with a formidable uppercut jab;
cut-prone and no great defensive technician,
yet his glove on one’s jaw felt more like a stab.

Tall, broad-shouldered and athletic,
he cut an imposing figure.
With powerful fists licensed to kill,
his look was of sternness and rigor.

In September ’54 he fought Harry Painter;
it was his very first match as a pro.
The battle took place at Harringay Arena
where Henry soundly defeated his foe.

Our ‘Enry took off like a house on fire,
for nine bouts in a row, no one got in his way.
But he lost number ten on a technical knockout;
how ironic that match was at old Harringay!

Henry bounced back, never one to stay down;
every match for him was compelling and vital.
But he suffered a big loss on February nineteenth;
Joe Bygraves took the Commonwealth heavyweight title.

Henry was no fly-by-night flash-in-the-pan;
undefeated champ for twelve years was he.
Our ‘Enry fought with the greatest and best
including “The Louisville Lip” – Muhammad Ali.

The young champ was still known as Cassius Clay;
the year was nineteen hundred and sixty-three.
A great deal of ticket-selling for this long-awaited bout
created a massive amount of world-wide publicity.

In the fourth round Henry was leading on points,
Ali making little attempt at effective aggression.
Henry felled Ali with a left hook to the body;
“‘Enry’s ‘Ammer” it was called in the profession.

Well, Ali’s manager brought him to the corner,
administering smelling salts banned in the UK.
The prohibited act was witnessed by no one
and a rejuvenated Ali defeated Henry that day.

Decades later a vital extra six seconds
showed up in a long-missing recording.
If all things had been on the clear up and up
the headlines would have had different wording.

For a second time Henry went up against Ali
who was now world heavyweight champion.
Though cut and tired, Henry never hit the canvas;
a TKO was the decision and again Ali won.

Henry won forty out of his fifty-five matches
and in 1971 it was time to hang up his gloves.
But Henry was never really down for the count
and he had a rich life full of many great loves.

Jump back to the late 1950s
when Henry met the love of his life.
A Gina Lollabrigida look-alike
who he courted and took as his wife.

She was dark-haired, petite at just five feet tall
and her name was Albina Genepri;
a waitress at Henry’s favorite restaurant,
a beauty from the Apennine region in Italy.

Two people who grew up hundreds of miles apart
from similar backgrounds – both working middle-class.
Henry was a cockney bloke from Beckenham in Kent.
When Albina learned English, her accent was like cut-glass.

It was ironic but Albina hated boxing
yet she remained Henry’s strength and his shield.
He constantly asked her to come to his fights
but only one solitary time did she yield.

Henry was known as a prince among men
and a king of the ring in many a fight.
In 2000 he was dubbed “Sir Henry Cooper”
joining the ranks of paladins and knights.

One night on his way to a sporting event
Henry received a call from his son.
“Come back home, dad!” was the pitiful plea.
“Something terrible’s happened to mum!”

Their’s was a love that movies are made of.
Lives full of happiness and very few tears.
They both were the real deal, genuine article
and their marriage lasted forty-seven years.

Albina had suffered a heart attack,
her devoted life had come to an end.
Henry never truly got over the shock
but like a willow he learned how to bend.

Just three years later Our ‘Enry
quietly passed while watching TV.
His son said it was quick and painless;
“He’s with mum now for all eternity.”

He was a lovely gent and a good fella,
a great husband, dad and true friend.
All those dear mates of Our ‘Enry
were loyal right up to the end.

Henry & Albina Cooper
Henry Cooper was the only boxer
ever to be knighted.

Henry vs Muhammad Ali


NAR © 2021

Season’s Greetings!

The Sicilian Storyteller

IT WAS A REAL TREAT FOR ME TO GUEST POST ON SONGSHINE SOUNDS AND WRITE A LITTLE BIT ABOUT MY FAVORITE HOLIDAY SONG, “THE CHRISTMAS SONG” BY NAT KING COLE. I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY THE BACKGROUND STORY, GREAT MUSIC AND THE CLEVER VIDEO. MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE! 💫 🕊️

Songshine Sounds

One of the most well-known and beloved holiday tunes is “The Christmas Song”made famous round the world by Nat King Cole. It’s certainly one of my favorite Christmas melodies, evoking a simpler time filled with family traditions and warm memories.

“The Christmas Song” (commonly subtitled “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire”)waswritten in 1945by Robert Wells and Mel Tormé (yes, the Velvet Fog, himself).

According to Tormé, the song was written in Julyduring a blistering hot summer. In an effort to “stay cool by thinking cool”, the most-performedChristmas song was born.“I saw a spiral notepad on Bob’s piano with four lines written in pencil”, Tormé recalled. “They started,‘Chestnutsroasting… Jack Frostnipping… Yuletide carols…Folks dressed up likeeskimos.’ Bob didn’t think he was writing a song lyric. He said he thought if he could immerse himself in winter he could cool off. Forty minutes later we’d written that song.”

Since Nat…

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THE JOURNEY

The Sicilian Storyteller

Mid-August in Alabama is about as hot as hell’s back kitchen, or at least that’s what folks like to say. It was just me and ma making do as best we could since my pa got himself killed in some place called Vietnam. I don’t recall much about the day we got the news. Couple of soldiers in fancy uniforms came to the door and mama started wailing like she was being skinned alive. Ma never really got over that. Some folks said she went plum crazy that day. She’d sit on the porch in that rickety old rocking chair staring straight ahead, just mumbling to herself and fidgeting with pa’s dog tags like they was rosary beads.

I sorta became invisible to ma so I started spending my time down by the watering hole mostly swimming and fishing so we’d have something to eat. I went hunting one day, surprising ma with a rabbit and we cooked it up for dinner. Ma hugged me tight and put pa’s dog tags around my neck. Next morning I found her hanging in the barn and started screaming till the neighbors came running. That’s when I began living with the Jenkins Family. I was six years old. 

The Jenkins’ was good hard-working farm folk and they treated me real fine. They had a truckload of kids – eight boys and one girl – but they didn’t think twice about taking me in. Ma Jenkins always said “Kids fill the house with love. What’s one more mouth to feed?”

At first the days moved slow as molasses in February. I knew right quick that farming wasn’t for me but I did my share every day. When I was about fifteen or so Ma Jenkins said I sprouted into a handsome devil, the spitting image of my pa. Right about the same time I started taking up with Nell Jenkins. Two years older than me, she was all legs, boobs and big sky blue eyes. We made love every night and she taught me stuff I didn’t think was possible. Somehow we never got caught. We was crazy for each other but I wasn’t looking to get hitched. I knew if I didn’t get off that Alabama farm I’d die there. One night while Nell slept I placed my pa’s dog tags on her pillow and slipped out. I was 17 years old.  

I lied about my age and got me a job as a long distance trucker; hard as it was, it beat the hell outta farming. Shit! Where have the years gone? I been trucking now for 16 years. I’m only 33 years old and dog tired; I feel like I’m 103. I been thinking a lot about Alabama lately – maybe settling down, getting a job in a hardware store. A few days later I quit my job and went back to where it all began.

There was a nip in the air when I arrived home on the morning of Christmas Eve. It felt like snow could be coming. The Christmas tree was up in the town square, the same weathered ornaments I remembered from my teenage years. I got out of my pickup and looked around a bit; not much had changed. A brisk wind blew in from nowhere; I rubbed my hands together and stuffed them in my pockets to stay warm. A white Christmas hereabouts was almost unheard of.

Wiley’s Diner was still there. I went in and sat at the counter. It was early and the place was deserted. The cook popped his head out from the kitchen and asked what I’d like. “Coffee, please” I said and stared out the window as the first snowflakes started drifting in and I got lost in Alabama memories.

“Here ya go, fresh hot coffee. How about a slice of buttermilk pie with that?” I turned to see a young waitress wearing a Santa hat, a welcoming smile on her face. She was a pretty little thing and I found myself staring into big sky blue eyes. My heart skipped a beat. She wore a name tag with ‘Stevie’ written on it; around her neck hung dog tags and I knew. Lord Jesus! This is my baby girl! I asked if her ma’s name was Nell and she smiled, saying “Yes. Do you know her?” I said I did a long time ago. I don’t know what possessed me but I scribbled my name and number on a napkin, asking her to kindly give it to her ma. She said she surely would and tucked it in her pocket.  Choking up a bit, I lowered my head and busied myself with my breakfast. I couldn’t chance her seeing the tears in my eyes.

I tapped the brim of my cap and smiled, saying “See ya” to the girl wearing my pa’s dog tags around her neck. “Now don’t forget about giving my note to your mama”.

“No sir, I surely won’t” she replied with a smile and patted the pocket of her waitress uniform.

I walked back to my truck and sat for a long time in the cab, my face in my hands. Dear God, is this some sort of Christmas miracle? Did you bring me back here to find my daughter? After so many years and thousands of miles I wondered if Nell could ever forgive me.

NAR © 2019

PART 2 – The (K)Not

The Sicilian Storyteller

As promised, here is Part 2 of Spira’s post “The (K)Not. What you’re about to read is incredible. Be prepared to have your mind blown. Read on, if you dare. 🤯

inSPIRAtion

{Denise gracefully hosts Six Sentence Stories, where writers unleash their magic under one simple rule: in no more or no less than 6 sentences.
This week’s prompt word is : KNOT }

This is the continuation of thePART 1 – The Knot.
If you haven’t read that first, kindly do so and then return to read Part 2.

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CHRISTMAS MUNCHKINS

The Sicilian Storyteller

I’VE BEEN TAKING A BREAK THIS MONTH
BY POSTING SOME OLDER PIECES.
HOPE YOU’VE BEEN ENJOYING THIS BATCH OF HOLIDAY STORIES
FROM THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST! 🎄 🎅🏼

It had been a busy night at my bar and I was cleaning up after the last customer left. It was Christmas Eve and most people headed out a little early to get home or do last-minute shopping. I locked up, turned off the lights and went upstairs to the apartment I shared with my wife Nicole and our little girl Mariah. 

It was quiet in our apartment but I could see a dim light coming from Mariah’s room. I peeked in to see my girls reciting bedtime prayers. My daughter’s sweet voice was hushed but I heard her say “And God, please remind Santa the only thing I really want for Christmas is a kitty”. 

I sat in the living room staring at the Christmas tree. Nicole came in and sat beside me. “You heard?” I nodded and said “You know, Nic, she’s such a good girl, never asks us for anything. I have to see if I can find her a kitten.” 

“At this hour, Kevin? Where are you going to go?” 

“Honestly Nic, I have no idea – but I have to try.” 

Every place I tried was either closed or sold out of kittens and puppies. Even the humane society and animal shelters had no kittens. I drove up to Westchester and down to Brooklyn with no luck. Time was running out and I was getting more and more depressed with every passing minute. I just wanted to make Mariah happy; disappointing my little girl on Christmas was not an option. 

As I was heading back home, Nicole called. “Kevin, did you have any luck?” 

“No luck, Nic. I’m tired, I’m frustrated and I’m really bummed out. I’m gonna stop for a quick cup of coffee and I’ll be home in a few. Love ya.” 

I pulled into a 24-hour Dunkin Donuts and ordered a coffee while the store owner’s cat rubbed up against my leg. “Adding insult to injury” I thought. The store was empty at this God-forsaken hour. I asked to use the restroom and as I walked to the back of the shop, I noticed a box in the corner. Normally a box wouldn’t interest me but this box was whimpering. I gently flipped up the top and to my amazement saw four tiny kittens in the box. Forgetting my need to use the restroom, I raced back out front, practically falling over myself and startling the owner. 

“Sir, I’ve been driving all night looking to buy a kitten for my daughter for Christmas. Please, I’m begging you! Can I possibly buy one of your kittens?” 

The owner looked at me and said “Aw, no man. They’re not for sale.”

I stared at him blankly, not knowing what to say. I was exhausted and frustrated and finding a box full of kittens was a miracle. At this point I did’t care about my pride – all that mattered was Mariah – and I was willing to beg. I slowly got down on one knee.

The store owner looked shocked and even a little embarrassed. “Aw, come on man! What are you doing?” he asked incredulously. “Get up off the floor. I already told you I can’t sell you a kitten.”

I stood, looking him square in the eye. “I know, sir, but it’s my little girl. She‘s only four-years-old and all she … ” and he cut me off in mid-sentence.

“I can’t sell you one” he repeated emphatically. “But I’ll gladly give you one for your kid.” 

I swear to God, I could have kissed him. Grinning like an idiot, I grabbed him by the shoulders. “Bless you, sir. Merry Christmas!”

“Sit down and drink your coffee” he said as he shuffled off to the back of the store humming “Jingle Bells”.

Christmas morning Mariah excitedly ran into the kitchen and saw the mugs of hot cocoa and the Dunkin Donuts Munchkins box on the table. “Yay, Christmas Munchkins!” she squealed as she reached for the box, her big green eyes opening wide when she saw the tiny kitty staring back at her. 

Yeah … this is the best Christmas ever.

NAR © 2018

PART 1 – The Knot

The Sicilian Storyteller

It is my great pleasure to repost “The Knot”, an inspiring poem by my friend, Spira. Your kind comments would be greatly appreciated. Be prepared for Part 2 later this week. On behalf of my friend I offer my sincere thanks!

inSPIRAtion

{Denise gracefully hosts Six Sentence Stories, where writers unleash their magic under one simple rule: in no more or no less than 6 sentences.
This week’s prompt word is : KNOT }

View original post 162 more words

FORCED FUN

The Sicilian Storyteller

“What the hell am I doing out on a night like this?” Glenn grumbled to himself, his mood worsening with each soggy step he took. “Freezing rain, my feet are soaked and I don’t even want to go to this damn office Christmas party!”

No one at his company knew that Glenn was planning to quit on New Year’s Eve. He was sick of his dead-end job, always being passed-over and stuck in a little cubicle all day. There’s got to be more to life than that!

Running into the little gift shop located in his company’s office building, Glenn spotted a small lapis lazuli ornament near the cash register and decided it would make a fine Secret Santa gift. As he reached for it, his hand bumped into a lovely feminine hand with sparkling fuchsia fingernails.

“Hold on, buster! That’s mine! I just left it on the counter while I went to get a gift bag.”

Turning his head sideways Glenn encountered a familiar face; it was the receptionist at his office. He always thought she was pretty but tonight she looked particularly fetching.

“Carrie, isn’t it? Well, I’m sorry but the rule is if you put something down before paying for it, it’s fair game. Besides, I’m in a hurry and I don’t have time to look around for anything else.”

Carrie recognized Glenn immediately. He reminded her of a dreamy Hugh Grant in his younger days – handsome and charming – just not at this particular moment.

“Glenn, right? Well, I’m in a hurry, too. The office Christmas party is tonight and this is my Secret Santa gift. You’re probably here for the same reason.”

“Guilty as charged” Glenn quipped. “Come on, Carrie. It’s been a crappy day. I just want to buy this gift, make an appearance at the party and get the hell out of there.”

“I feel the same way. These office celebrations are the worst! The last place I want to be is at that party but it’s mandatory. Nothing like ‘forced fun’!”

Glenn had to chuckle at that.

“Look, Glenn. There’s a bunch of other ornaments right over there. Just pick something and let me buy this one, alright? I did see it first, after all.”

“Oh, alright! It’s all yours!” Glenn conceded and dashed off to look for something else. He quickly found a small gold star ornament, grabbed a gift bag and returned to the register just as Carrie was finishing up her purchase. She gave Glenn a little smile and headed out into the lobby. He couldn’t help noticing her shapely legs as she walked away, heels click-clacking on the marble floor.

“So, we meet again” declared a voice beside Carrie as she waited for the elevator. She felt a slight rush knowing it was Glenn.

“Or maybe you’re following me” Carrie replied coyly, hoping she wasn’t blushing. She and Glenn never really spoke to each other at work but he always caught her eye. Glancing at him Carrie was struck with how intensely blue his eyes were. At the same moment Glenn was thinking how very kissable Carrie’s lips looked in the shimmering light of the lobby’s chandelier. 

They stepped into the elevator, the only two occupants as it made its slow ascent.

“Mind if I ask why you’re dreading this party so much?” Glenn inquired.

“That’s easy!” Carrie replied. “I hate my job! The people are unfriendly, all I do is answer the phone all day and give directions to rude visitors. This was not my dream when I first came to New York. I’m bored to death and capable of so much more. If I tell you something will you promise to keep it a secret?”

Glenn nodded and gave her the ‘zipped lips’ sign.

“I’m quitting on New Year’s Eve” Carrie whispered.

“No kidding! So am I! I hate my job, too. Working out of glass box 8 hours a day was never one of my dreams. But mum’s the word, OK?” Glenn whispered back conspiratorially and they stared into each other’s eyes like kids making a pinky pledge.

“Any idea what you’re gonna do?” Glenn asked.

“Not really” Carrie sighed “but I’ve always dreamed of running a bed and breakfast in Maine.”

“Sounds delightful” Glenn replied wistfully. “We used to vacation at my grandparent’s lake house in Maine when I was a kid. It’s gorgeous up there – a really great place to settle down.”

The elevator door opened to the office party in full swing. Glenn and Carrie groaned and deposited their little bags on the Secret Santa gift table. He went one way, she went the other but every few minutes they found themselves staring at each other across the room.

After a short time Carrie casually made her way to the elevator. She was just about to make her escape when she heard that familiar voice cry out “Hold the elevator!” and Glenn rushed in breathlessly.

They stood side-by-side, both too nervous to say a word. Then the inevitable happened.

“I was wondering…..” they said at the same time and laughed self-consciously.

“You first” prompted Carrie.

“I was thinking perhaps we could get a drink somewhere and talk about our dreams” Glenn suggested.

“My thoughts exactly” Carrie replied. And when they stepped outside they discovered the freezing rain had changed to snow.

“Looks like one of my Christmas wishes has come true” Glenn remarked, delighting in the sight of snowflakes gently landing on Carrie’s hair.

Carrie smiled up at Glenn. “Maybe we could have that drink at my place” she suggested, her eyes twinkling. “We could start up the fireplace, string popcorn for the tree …..”

“I’d like that very much” Glenn replied softly and slipped his fingers between hers.

NAR © 2020

AND SO THIS IS CHRISTMAS

The Sicilian Storyteller

Graphic by Mckenna Richy

Yay! Daddy’s bringing down the boxes of Christmas decorations from the attic! There’s a bunch of plastic tubs with a million trillion ornaments in them and a ginormous box with the tree. Daddy’s saying bad words ‘cause the box is heavy; he said ‘he’s busting his hump’. I never saw a hump on my Daddy. Mommy keeps slapping his arm and telling him to be quiet. Mommy said it’s Christmas Eve and we gotta put up the tree and cook all this stinky fish for dinner. Yuck! I wanna have pizza but she said no ‘cause fish is the Italian trabition, whatever that is. 

Oh no! The tree is broken! Why can’t we have a real tree like my friend Susie? Her family cuts a tree down and I think it smells just like the forest. Daddy says it’s ok; the tree isn’t broken. It comes in pieces like a puzzle and we gotta put it together. I’m gonna go play with my Colorforms now. I don’t wanna put the tree together. It’s boring. I just wanna hang ornaments and hold tinsel against the hot lights until it melts and snaps in half. How cool is that? Daddy always lifts me way up high to put the angel on the tippy top of the tree. 

Daddy’s calling me. Wow! The tree is covered with lights and it’s time to hang the ornaments! Mommy has a box that nobody’s allowed to touch ‘cause it’s got all her special ornaments. I don’t know what’s so special about them. I’ve got a Gumby and Pokey ornament. Now THAT’S special! I gotta use the stepstool to reach the higher branches. Mommy says I better not fall in the tree like I did last year. Boy, did she get mad! Finally it’s time for the angel and Daddy lifts me way up high to reach the top. She’s the most beautiful angel I’ve ever seen and I just wanna stare at her all night. 

Ding! Dong! Yay! Grammy and Grampy are here! Grampy says the fish smells delicious. Pee yoo! I’m not gonna eat it. I’m just gonna have some pisgetti. After dinner Mommy says we gotta get dressed for church. I don’t wanna go but Grammy says it’ll be sinning if we don’t go. 

Oh man! There’s no place to park at church and Daddy’s saying more bad words. Mommy’s slapping his arm again. FINALLY we park and go inside. Whoa! It’s so pretty! So many candles and twinkly lights. And there must be a zillion people! Grampy says they’re all a bunch of phonies. Boy, Grammy gave him a really big punch on the arm! We squeeze onto a bench and I snuggle into Mommy’s fur coat. It’s so soft and warm. I just wanna go to sleep. Maybe I can nap for just a little while ‘cause Santa’s coming tonight and I’m gonna stay up all night and wait for him. 

Woohoo! I did it! I stayed up all ni….. 

Wait a minute. How’d I get in my jammies? And I’m in bed! It’s Christmas morning and I missed Santa! I ran down the stairs ’cause I could smell the bacon and pancakes that Mommy’s making. Yay!! Santa came! Santa came! Look at all the presents! Mommy says breakfast first, then we can open the presents.

I never ate so fast in my whole life!! 

NAR © 2018

PEPPERMINT TWIST

The Sicilian Storyteller

I had been making eye contact all night with the ridiculously gorgeous bartender at my Christmas party so I was pleased to see her lingering behind after the last guest left. I was captivated by this amazing-looking creature. Lustrous dark hair framed her perfect face and caressed her shoulders. Her skin was radiant with a glowing tan and her lips were full and moist with sparkling teeth peeking through her provocative smile. But her eyes were her most striking feature – the most dazzling shade of violet I had ever seen.

She wore high heeled sandals and a short dress of gossamer silver lamé – spaghetti straps, low-scooped neckline and backless – leaving no doubt she was without bra or panties. She was innately arousing and bewitching.

This was my first Christmas party since my divorce. My ex got our Manhattan apartment and I got our Miami condo. Truthfully, I much prefer Christmas in NY; Miami’s just too damn hot.

I made sure everything was perfect – the food, the booze, the waitstaff and, of course, the bartender. She worked independently and was highly recommended by a friend of a friend. I could see why. I knew nothing but her first name – Alexandra.   

So now here it was around 2:00 AM; Alexandra and I were alone, the guests and hired help long gone. Sipping my drink, I looked out the open window at the twinkling Christmas lights on the street below while Alexandra finished up at the bar. 

“Join me for a nightcap?” I asked. 

She smiled, poured herself a Smirnoff peppermint vodka and joined me at the window. We stood in silence watching the lights in the distance, the seductive Miami air washing over us. Her hair smelled of gardenias and I impulsively reached out to caress her silkly tresses. She leaned into me and I buried my face in her hair, inhaling the intoxicating aroma. 

She turned to me and I cupped her face in my hands, rubbing my thumb slowly across her parted lips. I kissed her deeply, delighting in the sweet taste of peppermint. We silently stared into each other’s eyes as she took a step backwards. Slowly she slid her fingers under the straps of her dress. I watched mesmerized as the shimmering fabric slid to the floor and gathered round her feet like a wounded butterfly. 

She stood motionless, the amber light from the bar casting tantalizing shadows across her body. She was exquisite. Stepping over her discarded dress, Alexandra slowly walked toward me, her hands caressing her spotless breasts. I watched as she touched herself, her eyes dancing with desire. I scooped her up in my arms and carried her to the sofa. My tongue delighted in the taste of her body, every tantalizing inch. She was delicious, like nothing I’d ever experienced. 

After a while I reluctantly got up from the sofa and went to the bar for drinks. Suddenly I felt a searing pain in my head and collapsed, catching a fleeting glimpse of silver lamé before passing out. When I finally came to, I had a blinding headache; there was a broken vodka bottle on the floor, my wallet and Rolex were gone and my wall safe was empty. 

That sexy little bitch had pulled off the perfect heist. I winced at the pain in my head as I glanced at the sofa thinking it was damn close to being worth it.

Merry Fucking Christmas to me! 

NAR © 2018

RATED X

The Sicilian Storyteller

CHIMERA TORTOISESHELL KITTENS
AVAILABLE FOR ADOPTION!
MAKE SOMEONE VERY HAPPY THIS CHRISTMAS!
COME IN – ASK FOR LEAH

Gary did a double-take when he saw the sign on the marquee outside St. Thomas Methodist church. He’d always been fascinated by those distinctively mottled cats with an extra X chromosome. Gary supported humane societies and animal shelters, not pet stores. He knew people paid a lot of money for pets, especially the designer dogs some breeders ‘manufacture’ such as Labradoodles and Yorkipoos. Rescuing pets was more his style.

Not hesitating for a second, Gary walked inside and knocked on the open door of an office marked ‘Communities Outreach Program’. A pleasant female voice rang out “Come on in! I’ll be right there.”

Glancing around the room Gary noticed a large bulletin board full of colorful flyers about the church’s events: the weekly Advent wreath candle lighting ceremony, the upcoming Christmas pageant, a clothing drive for the homeless and a sign-up sheet to volunteer at a local soup kitchen.

“Hi! You must be Sam. The delivery is all ready for you.”

Gary found himself face to face with the most adorable woman he had ever seen. She was casually dressed in jeans, a Christmas sweater and a Santa hat; her short blonde hair barely brushed her shoulders. Dark-rimmed glasses couldn’t hide her luminous green eyes and her infectious smile displayed sparkling white teeth. Even without makeup she was radiant.

Somewhat dumbstruck, Gary said “Um, hi. I’m Gary, not Sam. Sorry but I don’t know anything about a delivery. I’m looking for Leah.”

“I’m Leah. Sorry for the mix-up. I’ve been waiting hours for a guy named Sam to deliver a truckload of groceries to the soup kitchen. I thought you were him.” Leah frowned.

“Actually, I’m here because I saw the sign about the kittens for adoption” Gary admitted rather sheepishly, wishing he was there for something more altruistic – like making a soup kitchen delivery.

“Oh, shoot! I forgot that sign was still up!” exclaimed Leah. “I’m sorry but the kittens were all snatched up except for the runt of the litter. Poor little thing – I took her home. She’s keeping my cat Othello company – not that he’s thrilled about it.”

Gary was visibly disappointed. “Oh, you’re kidding! Just my luck! I got excited when I saw your adoption sign. Well, I guess it wasn’t meant to be. I’ll get out of your hair now, Leah … unless you think I can help with something.”

Leah checked her watch; it was getting late and it looked like Sam was a no-show. Gary seemed like a trustworthy guy so she took a chance. Besides, he was wearing a Christmas sweater and a Santa hat, too; if you can’t trust a cute guy in a Santa hat, who can you trust? “Well, if you wouldn’t mind I could use a hand delivering those groceries.”

“Why not!” Gary answered – a bit too enthusiastically. “I don’t have anything going on tonight.”

“Great!” Leah answered – a bit too enthusiastically. “You’re a lifesaver, Gary! And I’m really sorry about the kittens.”

On the way to the soup kitchen, Leah and Gary chatted non-stop and discovered they had a lot in common. They were both friendly, outgoing people who enjoyed doing volunteer work, they loved animals and they were hopeless romantics. And they were both single. When Gary told Leah about his tabby Roxy who passed away 8 months earlier, it broke her heart and she could see why Gary was so disappointed about the kittens. What could have been a boring time turned into a really nice evening and they thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.

When the delivery was done, Leah said “Gary, I want to thank you for all your help tonight. I know you were really hoping to adopt a kitten. How about we make that happen?”

Gary was caught off guard. “Leah, please don’t feel like you owe me anything! I didn’t help you because I was looking for something in return. I really like you and was happy to help. But if you’re serious about the kitten, then yes – that would make my day!”

“I really like you, too, Gary.” Leah blushed. “Let’s head over to my place so you can meet the kitty. I just have to warn you: watch out for Othello. He doesn’t like strangers and is pretty territorial. In fact, he barely tolerates me and that’s because I feed him!” Leah laughed.

To Gary’s ears Leah’s laughter sounded like crystal bells.

Arriving at Leah’s place, Gary was too excited to worry about Othello. He was speechless at the sight of the tiny chimera kitten resting on a blanket in a wicker basket. He gently picked her up and sat on the sofa cradling her in his arms. Leah’s heart melted watching the two of them.

“I’ll go make some coffee” Leah suggested. “You be nice, Othello!”

Out of the corner of his eye Gary saw a large grey cat in the hallway giving him the evil eye. “Ah, you must be Othello” he whispered. “Look man – please don’t blow this for me, dude. I’ve kinda fallen for Leah and just between us guys, I think she likes me, too.” Othello crept closer and sniffed Gary’s shoes. Placing his front paws on the sofa he stared intently at Gary, then nonchalantly jumped up and made himself comfortable leaning against Gary’s leg purring contentedly.

“Well, how do you like that!” Leah declared in pleasant surprise. “Othello’s taken a liking to you, too, Gary. I think we made a connection here tonight.”

“Yeah, I think we really did, Leah. And I have the perfect name for this little lady. Leah, say hello to Desdemona.”

“Ah, Othello and Desdemona, Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers – but this time with a very happy ending.” 

Leah sighed as she rested her head on Gary’s shoulder. “Thank you, Santa” she thought dreamily.

Othello

NAR © 2020

THE EIGHTH OF DECEMBER

The Sicilian Storyteller

A tribute to John Lennon who was taken from us on this date in 1980.
Roughly two years ago I had the great pleasure and honor to narrate a few of my stories on the BBC Radio program “Upload”. I also submitted “The Eighth of December”, never expecting to receive an email from the program manager of the radio station asking me if I’d be willing to read my story and do a live interview. To us here in The States, The BBC is a pretty big deal so I was rather blown away and, despite my nerves, I agreed to the interview. The format of the radio station changed and “Upload” has since been replaced by another show; it’s now impossible to find my interview.
All I have is my 5-year-old story to share with you.
Every word is true.
Here is “The Eighth of December”.

The Dakota, home of John Lennon at the time of his death.
The people you see are some of the mourners
who had just learned the awful news.
Notice the flag atop the building already at half-mast.

While cradling my year old son David in his bed after a bad dream, I sang softly to him my favorite Beatles song, In My Life. He stared up at me, his blue eyes moist with tears. Slowly his breathing became calm and his eyelids began to flutter. At last he was asleep and I kissed his eyes, removing the last traces of salty droplets as I pulled up his covers.

Closing the door gently behind me, I went back downstairs where my husband Bill was watching Monday Night Football. One look at him as he sat on the sofa, his head in his hands, told me his team must have been playing very badly. I kidded him about being so upset over a game but he didn’t react. I called his name and when he looked up at me there were tears running down his face. Something was terribly wrong.

I sat next to him and he turned to me, taking my hands in his. As if in some sort of fog, Bill told me that John Lennon was dead, shot on the doorsteps of his home, The Dakota. I stared at him in shock. Why would he say such a horrible thing? Who would ever want to hurt John?

He turned the tv volume back on; the game had been interrupted by the report of an incident involving John. I dropped to the floor as the reporter droned on about ‘rapid gun shots’ .. ‘police/John/hospital’ .. ‘dead on arrival’.

I cried uncontrollably and kept repeating no! no! no! as Bill held me in his arms and I sobbed in unimaginable sorrow and disbelief. We sat on the floor for a long time, clinging to each other, unable to stop our tears or unhear the words coming from the tv.

At one point our three year old son Billy crept down the stairs, frightened and wondering what was wrong with mommy. My husband quickly scooped him up and brought him to his room, whispering that mommy was very sad about something she saw on tv and she would be ok tomorrow.

But I was not ok the next day. I was not ok the next week. I was never truly ok after that night. No living, loving soul was ever ok again. The entire world was grieving.

These days, almost 38 years later, as I cradle my grand-babies in my arms and rock them to sleep, I sing In My Life and I remember John. 

NAR © 2018

HOW IRONIC

The Sicilian Storyteller

Roger Prince was freezing. He had never been this cold in all his life. In fact, he was cold as a block of ice. Why was Roger Prince so cold? Because he was dead … stone-cold, dead-as-a-doornail D.E.A.D. You see, Roger had a big problem … he could never say “no” … and now because of that he was dead. 

Roger Prince was the nicest guy you’d ever meet … the type of guy who’d let you go ahead of him in line. The type of guy who’d help change your flat tire. The type of guy who’d loan you $10. Roger Prince was … well, a prince. 

But poor Roger Prince … as nice as he was … was also kind of a sap because he just couldn’t say “no”. If there was such a thing as being too nice, that was Roger … that was his Achilles heel, his weak spot, his fatal flaw. 

Temporarily unemployed, Roger tried saving money by moving into the upstairs bedroom of old Mrs. Willoughby’s house in the outskirts of town.  A housebound widow with no family, Mrs. Willoughby let Roger stay for practically nothing. Having no tv or phone, her expenses were minimal. Roger helped pay for utilities, maintained the house and brought in what little mail was delivered. He also went to the grocery store to buy Mrs. Willoughby’s staples: peanut butter, bread, instant coffee and a few toiletries. 

This particular December morning, a heavy snow started around 2:00. When Roger woke up at 8:00, it was still coming down and showed no sign of stopping. Going into the kitchen for his morning coffee, Roger found none … also no bread. 

“Roger, dear” came a feeble voice from the parlor. “Can you run into town for coffee and bread? I forgot to ask you last night.” 

“Mrs. Willoughby, have you looked outside? There’s three feet of snow out there!” Seeing her confused and distressed look, Roger couldn’t say no. “Don’t worry. I’ll head into town right now.” 

Roger mumbled “Why do we live in the middle of nowhere?!” 

Wind-swept snow whirled around Roger’s face as he slowly trudged into town. Suddenly he lost his footing and tumbled down a steep hill, his eyes widening as he slammed head first into a tree. How ironic that his final startled word would be “NOOO!!” 

Roger Prince died instantly, the falling snow enveloping his body. 

And Mrs. Willoughby waited. 

NAR © 2017

HELLO, GOODBYE

The Sicilian Storyteller

RITA’S SIDE OF THE STORY

It was the night of the office Christmas party and I was dreading it. I knew Kevin was going to be there. We went out on a couple of dates which ended badly. I thought he was a decent guy but I was wrong. He pretended to be interested in me but all he wanted was sex. Now he wouldn’t leave me alone and I couldn’t stand being around him. He’d stop by my cubicle at work every single day and try to chat me up. It was getting to the point where I actually thought about quitting my job. Kevin never missed a party, a chance to get drunk and hit on women. I wasn’t there long before he spotted me. I turned and headed for the restroom. When I came out, Kevin was waiting … drunk, leaning against the wall, drink in hand. He stumbled towards me slurring incoherently and pushed the drink in my face. I walked past him but he grabbed my arm and pulled me into the supply room. He pinned me to the wall, smashing his lips against mine, groping my breasts with one hand while shoving the other up my skirt. Somehow I managed to push him off me. Kevin was so drunk, he stumbled, fell to his knees and keeled over. I ran out into the street, gasping as the shocking cold rain washed my body of Kevin’s stink. I couldn’t go to my apartment; Kevin knew my address. Hailing a cab, I fled to the safety of my parents house … safe from Kevin. 

KEVIN’S SIDE OF THE STORY

It was the night of the office Christmas party and I was dreading it. I knew Rita was going to be there. We had a ‘thing’ once which ended badly and she just couldn’t get past it. Now she wouldn’t leave me alone, texting day and night pleading I give her another chance. The last thing I wanted tonight was her making a scene, These office holiday parties … I only go to them because it’s expected by the boss but they really aren’t my thing. People get drunk and things happen that can’t be undone. I show up, make small talk and leave. Thirty minutes is enough time to make the rounds and wish the boss a Merry Christmas on my way out. I was searching for my jacket in the coat room when Rita snuck up behind me. Wrapping her arms around my waist, she tongued my ear whispering incoherently. When I turned to free myself, she kicked the door closed and started fumbling with my belt buckle. Rita was grinding against my crotch, her dress riding up to her waist. I was trapped by a drunken sex machine reeking of patchouli and bourbon. I was disgusted; this was not how I liked being with a woman. I just wanted to get the hell out of there and away from Rita. Suddenly she went limp and crumbled onto a pile of coats. I grabbed my jacket and made a beeline for the door. The air was cold and stung my face but I knew it would clear the smell of Rita from my clothes and out of my head. 

NAR © 2017

MY DARLING

The Sicilian Storyteller

Melt in my arms tonight, my darling, for you’re safe in this room here with me
Rest your head on my chest now, my darling, think what tomorrow will be 
The moon is full now, my darling, the hushed trees making nary a sound
As snowflakes and crystals descend from the heavens tenderly kissing the ground 

The winter is here now, my darling, gone is the summer breeze song
But the fire is warm, the blanket is cozy and I’ll cling to you all the night long 
Close your eyes and sleep now, my darling, for you know I will always be near
Wipe the tears from your long golden lashes; ’twas a bad dream, there’s nothing to fear 

Hush now, no more crying, my darling, only sweet thoughts swimming round in your head
You’re so precious, my darling, my angel, very small yet so safe in my bed 
Tomorrow is Christmas, my darling, and the reindeer will be pulling the sleigh
With Santa and candy and toys made by elves and he’s surely coming this way 

Chef will bake cookies, my darling, and the night servant will bring out a plate
To place on the mantle, my darling, for Santa…..his poor hungry tummy to sate 
What’s that you say, my sweet darling? Read one more story tonight?
Yes, of course, my sweet little darling, for I know all things will be right 

Just a short one, my sweet little darling, for the clock is beginning to chime
It won’t be long now, my darling, you’ll awaken to a wondrous time 
Are you ready, my precious, my darling, for the story of fairies and plums?
Mommy’s here, my sweet angel darling, and here I’ll stay till the bright morning comes 

NAR © 2017

DON’T QUIT NOW!

The Sicilian Storyteller

No apologies or excuses. I know I said I wasn’t going to post anything new until 2023 but I was doing some research today and came across an interesting factoid which I wanted to share with you. Hope you find this as surprising and inspiring as I did.

In 1925 F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote “The Great Gatsby”. The novel depicts narrator Nick Carraway’s interactions with mysterious millionaire Jay Gatsby and Gatsby’s obsession to reunite with his former lover, Daisy Buchanan.

“The Great Gatsby” sold poorly in its first year, selling fewer than 20,000 copies. Fitzgerald died in 1940, believing his work was a compete failure. However, the novel experienced a revival during World War II and became a part of American high school curricula in the decades that followed. Today, it is widely considered to be a literary classic.

The message to all of us pecking away at our keyboards or scribbling on our notepads should come through loud and clear: DON’T QUIT NOW!

NAR © 2022

F. Scott Fitzgerald

THREE OF A KIND

The Sicilian Storyteller

Head cocked to the right, Jake waited impatiently as I read the article he had slipped in front of me. Having been born with microtia, Jake’s right ear was small and malformed with significantly decreased hearing – just like his idol Paul Stanley from KISS – so tilting his head to one side for better hearing was second nature. 

“Mom, can we go….PLEASE?” he pleaded. “The article says 50 dogs and cats will be euthanized next week unless they’re adopted. Please, Mom! I’ve wanted a dog forever! If I can get a dog for Christmas, I’ll never ask you for another thing for the rest of my life!!”

I slid my glasses down my nose, peering at my son in amusement, and raised my eyebrows questioningly. “That’s a really long time, Jake! I’ll tell you what. Today’s Wednesday. If you finish that book report and clean your room by Saturday, then we have a deal.” 

“Really?? I swear I will, Mom!” Jake threw his arms around my neck. “I can’t wait until Saturday!” I couldn’t help laughing at his unbridled excitement. 

Saturday finally arrived and Jake was true to his word. His report was done and his room was clean. He even found an old frame in the basement for his favorite KISS poster.

So I was true to MY word. We got to the shelter early and looked around, stopping at all the cages. After a while, I lost sight of Jake. I called out to him and was rewarded with an “Over here!” in response. I finally spotted him in the corner, bending down and staring into a cage. There weren’t any other people hanging around that section and I wondered what type of dog caught Jake’s eye. I was surprised to see it wasn’t a dog but two tiny grey kittens. 

“Hey, buddy, what’s up? I thought you wanted to get a dog. Did you change your mind?” 

Jake looked up, his big brown eyes wide in awe. “Mom,” he whispered breathlessly. “Come look. These are special cats!” Bending down to take a look, I thought “what could be so special about a cat?” My question was answered when I looked at the two fluffy grey faces and I gasped slightly at what I saw. 

“Pardon me but I see an introduction is in order” said one of the shelter volunteers. ”These are our Scottish Folds. No one wants these little guys because of their folded ears. Everyone thinks there’s something wrong with them but that’s just the way God made them.” 

“Mom, they’re just like me! I love them. Can we take them home, please?” 

“We sure can, buddy” I managed to say despite the huge lump in my throat. “What are you going to name them?” 

“That’s easy.” Jake smiled up at me. “Paul and Stanley.” 

NAR © 2017