Story

Almost Paradise

Written for Fandango’s Story Starter #142

Was everything that happened really all my fault?

It all came about one day in April, the 1st, to be exact. Newly divorced, I had recently moved into a house in the country and was enjoying my morning coffee on the patio. Birds of many different varieties flitted about the bushes and fruit trees in the yard next door. Even a couple of deer and a few rabbits were contentedly munching on the grass. I felt like I was in the middle of a Disney movie and wouldn’t have been at all surprised if the animals started talking and singing!

Looking around my property I couldn’t help but compare my landscaping to that of my neighbor, Marjorie. Hers was overflowing with every sort of plant imaginable while mine had a paltry number of pitiful-looking bushes on the verge of death. I began to envision my very own Garden of Eden. There would be shrubs and fruit trees and flowers everywhere, graceful statues and a tranquil water feature. My yard was going to be much better than Marjorie’s!

Perhaps her ears were burning or it was just a coincidence but at that very moment Marjorie turned her head in my direction. Even from forty feet away I could see her beady eyes squinting at me. A rather obese woman, she was sweating profusely as she labored in her garden, her ridiculously small bonnet providing little shade to her balloon-like face. I waved to her but she didn’t wave back; either she didn’t see me or she chose to ignore me. Marjorie wasn’t all shits and giggles. Her husband left her for another woman (no big surprise there!) and her grown children lived far away. It seemed like her only joy in life was tending to her expansive garden.

Being a city boy, I knew nothing about gardening so I called the local nursery where one could get anything from a hose nozzle to a majestic pine tree. One of the landscapers came by a few hours later and walked through the property with me, making suggestions as we went along. I told him money was no object and gave him free reign to plant whatever he thought best – the more impressive the better.

A few days later the nursery’s trucks arrived at my house. I caught a glimpse of Marjorie peeking through her curtains as my many purchases were unloaded and wheeled into my yard. The landscapers got to work planting everything from small flowering shrubs to walls of bamboo. They put in an arbor, birdbaths, several angelic statues as well as a Japanese-inspired water feature. Before my eyes the once barren wasteland was now a flourishing oasis. Take that, Marjorie!

My new bountiful yard only spurred her on to do even more work in her yard; every time one of us added something new, so would the other. It became a petty, childish game of tit for tat; who could create the most majestic personal Nirvana?

The next morning while brewing a cup of coffee, I was shocked to see a police car and ambulance outside Marjorie’s house; she had suffered a fatal heart attack while working in her garden. Well, there certainly was no love lost between us but I never wished her any harm. She was a rotund woman; laboring day after day in her garden the way she did obviously put too much strain on her heart. I hoped whoever moved in next door would treat Marjorie’s yard with the same tender loving care.

A few weeks later I woke up to the screeching sounds of power tools and heavy machinery. Unable to see through my dense bamboo hedge, I walked around the front to Marjorie’s place; all her marvelous landscaping was being leveled! After everything was hauled away, a bulldozer began digging a huge hole. Week after week the work continued. The noise was enervating and I found myself spending more and more time working inside from my home office and away from my backyard utopia.

Finally one day in early August all was quiet; the work next door was complete. I decided it was time to fling wide the portals leading outside and enjoy an afternoon in the sun with the birds splashing in my water feature. My good friend Charlie stopped by and as we sat there enjoying a few ice cold Michelob Ultras, the pristine silence was broken by the shrieks, yelps and laughter of little children.

“Damnation! What now?” I grumbled, rolling my eyes and craning my neck for a peek.

Charlie nearly choked on his beer. “Don’t tell me you don’t know!”

“Know what?” I asked. I had no idea what he was talking about.

“You dumb son of a bitch!” Charlie howled. “Dear old Marjorie left a will stating that her house and property were to be leveled and converted into a daycare facility, complete with playground, carousel and swimming pool.”

“You can’t be serious! What about zoning laws?” I sputtered in disbelief. Visions of my plummeting property value made me groan. And Charlie laughed, clearly enjoying my distress a bit too much.

Was this some sort of twisted karma? I just wouldn’t let old Marjorie best me and now, what she couldn’t achieve in life she had accomplished in death. The ultimate victory was hers. I felt sick to my stomach.

“Almost paradise.” I sighed, a defeated man. Maybe everything that happened really was my fault after all.

NAR©2024

This is Joni Mitchell with “Big Yellow Taxi”

All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.

Story

The Stench of Cowards

This was written in response to John’s March 14th “Writer’s Workshop Prompts” at The Sound Of One Hand Typing, meeting two of his prompts: an eight-sentence post based on the word “respect”. I write long sentences!

Not too long ago I brought my car to the dealer for routine maintenance and since it was going to be a quick appointment, I opted to wait in the customer’s lounge rather than go home and come back when the car was ready; apparently, quite a few other people had the same idea because the waiting area was quite full.

Sometimes I’ll find myself engaged in conversation with an interesting person but most times I prefer to wait in quiet, reading my emails or making notes for a story; this particular day, since the waiting area was full, I had no choice but to sit next to a woman and her little boy, approximately 3 years old.

The first thing I noticed about the woman was the hostility and impatience that shot out of her like a machine gun and the primary recipient of her nasty temperament was her little boy; she seemed to take great pleasure in taunting and teasing him and reprimanding him, both verbally and physically.

I was very uncomfortable with her behavior and found it extremely difficult to stay out of the situation but if I expect people to respect my boundaries, I need to show the same respect to them, however, this woman seemed to be inviting someone to say something; obviously no one wanted trouble so everyone kept their eyes averted, heads down and mouths shut, but the atmosphere in the room was tense.

The final straw came when the woman reached into her purse, pulled out a granola bar and began eating while her little boy stood at her knees whining because he wanted something to eat, too; the woman told him that was too bad because he already had his snack and the granola bar was HERS, and, of course, the child threw himself onto the floor and began crying at which point the woman bent over in her seat and slapped the boy several times on the side of his head, causing him to scream out.

That was it for me and while the other people tsk’d and muttered and winced, I turned to the woman and said in a tone as matter-of-factly as if I was asking what time it was, “Please don’t hit your child” to which she yelled “Shut up, bitch, and mind your own fucking business!”, which wasn’t entirely unexpected but I was prepared.

I got up and left the room, fully aware of eyes on me, glaring at me and I could feel their resentment as if I was the wrongful party in this scenario who let that little boy down while they all sat mutely by and allowed the poor child to be mistreated; what’s more, I could feel that horrible woman’s eyes boring a hole in my back, acting the fool and flaunting her victory over a defenseless child.

When I returned a minute later with a policewoman to show her what was going on in front of people who chose to remain silent, the mood in the room immediately shifted and I was suddenly the hero with people actually applauding for me as if this was some kind of performance for their entertainment; I wanted to scream “Live by example, you fucking bastards!”, but I wouldn’t lower myself to their level and couldn’t get out of that room fast enough .
 a room reeking of the stench of cowards with no self-respect.

NAR©2024

This is “Teach Your Children” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.

Story

Riddles Of Love

I wrote this fairytale 14 years ago
for my eldest granddaughter, Mckenna.
I have revised it for my youngest, Colette.

~ THE KING’S DECREE WAS SENT OUT ACROSS THE LAND ~

PRINCES OF MAGONIA!
YOU ARE SUMMONED TO TAKE UP THE CHALLENGE
FOR THE HAND OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, PRINCESS AMIRA!

Fifty answered the royal command. Upon seeing Princess Amira, they all gasped; she was a stunning beauty. Her unblemished skin as pure as snow, her eyes sparkling ice blue like crystal waters and her hair the color of the stars. Her loveliness was matched only by her brilliant mind and pure heart. She longed to be married but found most men boring, ignorant and foolish. 

Amira motioned for the princes to sit and in a confident voice she addressed them: 

“One among you will be my husband! Marriage is not based solely on appearances. To win my hand, you must be smart, interesting, humorous and brave. These fifty parchments, one for each of you, contain three riddles. You have two days to solve them. Record your answers on the parchment and return them to Zora, my lady-in-waiting. Use your brain; only a clear head, clever mind and true heart will win my hand.”

Forty gave up on the first day. On day two, the remaining ten reported to Princess Amira’s lady. Nine answered the riddles incorrectly and were dismissed. Only one answered all the riddles correctly. Now it was time for Zora to present the victor to Amira. 

“Greetings, clever prince! What is your name?” 

“I am Khalil but I am no prince. I am squire to Prince Wahid. He was unable to answer your riddles. He fled in embarrassment and I secretly took his place.”

“And you can answer them? Let us see! Zora will read the riddles.”

The first question was offered: “What is born each night and dies each dawn?” 

Khalil answered correctly: “Hope”. Amira was impressed but showed no reaction.

Zora posed the second riddle: “What flares warm like a flame but is not a flame?

Again Khalil answered correctly: “Blood”. Princess Amira was amazed.

Finally, the third question was asked: “What disappears the moment you say its name?

Khalil responded confidently: â€œSilence”.

“Excellent, Khalil!” said Amira, stunned by Khalil’s clever wit. “All your answers are correct! But I cannot forget that you tried to fool me by pretending to be a prince.”

“Pardon me, your highness; I knew this was my only chance to vie for your hand. Prince Wahid is a dolt, desirous of your wealth and bewitched by your beauty. He is not worthy of you. Please afford me an opportunity to convince you we are truly meant to be together. If I may, I have three riddles to ask you, Princess Amira. If you answer correctly, we will be wed. If not, I am at your mercy.” 

“I am intrigued by your daring nature, Khalil. I will allow your three riddles. Proceed.”

Khalil posed his first riddle to Princess Amira:

“I can only live where there is light but will die if light shines on me. What am I?”

Amira thought for a moment, then answered: “I know! You are a shadow.”

Khalil took a few steps closer to the princess.

“That is correct, your highness” Khalil replied. “Here is your second riddle”:

“The more there is, the less you see. What am I?”

Amira quickly responded with â€œDarkness.”

Moving closer still, Khalil smiled warmly and whispered “Correct again. And now for your final question, Amira.”

Curious and quite taken by this handsome, clever squire, Amira returned the smile. Khalil began his riddle:

“He is incognito, no birthright of blood royal.
He is patient, caring, determined and loyal.
He has no great wealth but is clever and smart.
He can promise to love you with all his heart.”

Khalil looked deeply into the princess’ eyes. “Who am I, Amira?”

Reaching for Khalil’s hands, Amira drew him closer and whispered:

“The answer is you, Khalil! You are my prince and future husband.”

Amira and Khalil found true love at last. They were married and lived a long and happy life.

The End.

NAR©2024

NB: My inspiration for writing this fairytale came after attending a performance of the opera, Turandot. The aria “Nessun dorma” (“Nobody shall sleep) is first heard in Act III of Puccini’s opera and is performed by the protagonist, Calaf, who falls in love with Princess Turandot at first sight. Before the aria, Calaf has successfully answered all of the Princess’ riddles but she is still rebuking his advances. Calaf is sure of his plan to marry the princess as he has challenged her to find out his name by the morning; if she cannot learn his name by the time the sun rises, she has to marry him. In the last line of the aria, the prince expresses his triumphant assurance that he will win the hand of the princess: All’alba vincerĂČ! VincerĂČ, vincerĂČ, vincerĂČ (At dawn, I will win! Win, win, win!).


From the 1924 opera Turandot by Giacomo Puccini, this is “Nessun dorma”, sung by the maestro, Luciano Pavarotti.

All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.

Story

Walk This Way

When I die, I’m going to donate my body to science. Don’t mistake me, I’m not being altruistic. I’m being realistic. Maybe one of those brilliant doctors or scientists can finally figure out what the fuck was wrong with me; I sure as hell haven’t had any luck so far. This long sought-after info won’t be worth a pile of beans to me cos I’ll be dead 
. just saying.

There are 168 hours in one week. Just for fun, let’s divide that in half to represent day and night – awake hours vs asleep hours (not very accurate, I know, but you get the picture). Half of 168 is 84. Of those 84 hours, I experience a tingling sensation for about 70 hours per week, maybe more. And it’s not the good kind of tingling. You know what I mean, wink wink.

When the tingling first started, perhaps two years ago, it was fleeting – much like the feeling you get when your foot is about to fall asleep. It was located in the left side of my lower back and traveled down the back of my left thigh to my knee. It was annoying but not horrible. Over time, the tingling spread down to my toes; now it has also begun to travel up into my back, shoulder and neck 
. all on the left side. And it is insatiable …. kinda like that feeling I get when I see Colin Farrell. There are few and far between times when I’ll notice the tingling is gone; it’s sheer bliss and feels absolutely magnificent to be at rest. Then it comes back just a couple of hours later. It’s back right now but this time in both legs! Ain’t that a kick in the head!?

I really enjoy walking but haven’t been getting out as much as I’d like. Walking saved me the last time I had a major flare up. Everything just sort of healed itself. I got my strength and stamina back and I was feeling the best I’d felt in quite a while. I need to get back into walking. I know it sounds like a lame excuse but I really don’t enjoy walking when it’s freezing outside and there are no malls nearby to walk in.

Today was like Spring so I went for a short walk; I took it easy and was out for only about 15 minutes. I do not subscribe to the ”no pain, no gain’‘ school of thought; 15 minutes today was quite enough, thank you. After walking, I relaxed in my recliner for a while with an ice pack, just to be on the safe side. I love my recliner. It’s where I make pit stops during the day, when I need a break from housecleaning, cooking, babysitting. I’ll put my feet up and ice my back and neck and it helps.

Lately my head has developed a tendency to tilt to the left; it happens when I’m watching TV or sleeping or checking out the new house being built across the way or sitting at my Mac, as I am right now. When I get really tired or I’ve pushed myself too far, my lower back will start screaming while my left side becomes an angry buzz of tingles. My head will tilt dramatically to the left and I imagine I must look like Marty Feldman, the actor who played Igor in Mel Brooks’ “Young Frankenstein”. (If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll know that’s Eyegor and FrĂ€nkenstēēn). I adore Mel Brooks, the last of the real comedic geniuses. At least I have managed to keep my sense of humor through all this physical bullshit.

Now I’m noticing a lovely new development: it’s all but impossible for me to tilt my head to the right! Ain’t that a kick in the head!? It’s either sitting perfectly straight on my shoulders (which is good!) or tilting to the left. There’s a tendon, I think, that is stretched to the max like a big fat fully extended rubber band and it’s tight as a drum. I’m pretty damn sure that’s what’s keeping me from tilting my head to the right. I saw my orthopedist the other day; she felt around my shoulders and said “Jeez, you’re really tight!” Ya think!?!

I’ve had multiple trigger point injections, nerve blocks, epidurals and cortisone shots, all resulting in extremely short term relief. X-Rays, scans and MRIs show a lot of arthritis, spinal stenosis and some funkiness going on with my discs but nothing “remarkable”. How can that be? Ain’t that a freakin’ kick in the head!? Hey! Maybe that’ll set everything straight 
. a good kick in the head!

So, here’s the plan: next week I’m going to have another bilateral shot in my lower back in the hope it will “alleviate my discomfort”. If it doesn’t, I’ll have another series of MRIs to see if anything has changed over the 12 months since my last set of MRIs. It will be fantastic if the shot helps but I’m not betting the house on it. One thing is certain: after this upcoming shot, I’m done with injections. I’ve had it so wish me luck! Well, you might be interested in knowing that besides the arthritis/stenosis, there’s not another single thing wrong with me. I’m in perfect health, totally aware of what’s happening to this “vessel” in which I exist. Ain’t that a kick in the head!?

My mister is one of the funniest people I know and we make each other laugh. It’s not always easy keeping a good sense of humor but it helps me get through everything. And to be perfectly honest …. I’m getting really tired of walking around like Igor!

From Mel Brooks’ “Young Frankenstein”, the first meeting of Igor and Dr. Frankenstein:

This is Dean Martin with “Ain’t That A Kick In The Head”

NAR©2024

All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.

Story

Pass The Baton, March 2024

How the story started by Marla

“No.”

“But, I want you,” he whined. 

“That means nothing to me. I am not a USO Girl and you’re not the military,” she said sternly. I’ve given you my response.”

“It’s not fair. I want this! No, I need this, and I want you to do it with me!”

“You want free labor to make your dream possible, and I’m not willing to entertain being a part of something I don’t want to do. I actually know you, which is one of the many reasons you don’t want to ask me, Jeremy. I don’t deal with your nonsense very well. Find someone else.”

She left the room quietly. 

He plopped onto the couch, splayed out like a tired octopus. “She’ll never understand,” he bemoaned with a pinch of heavy sigh. 

➰➰➰

Sadje’s part:

Jeremy mourned the rejection from Stella for a day or two and then he was back to trying to recruit another helper for his house remodel project. 

But whoever he asked declined. It seemed that Stella had spread the news of Jeremy’s devious planning around and most people were pre-warned and were avoiding even talking to him. 

Then there was a surprising offer of help from someone he least expected
.

➰➰➰

Fandango’s part:

“Hey, Buddy, I hear you need a hand.”

Jeremy was standing on a ladder skim-coating the drywall in a small closet when he froze. The voice sounded familiar but he couldn’t immediately place it. He climbed down off the ladder, turned in the direction the voice had come from, and his jaw dropped when he saw who it was.

“Surprise, surprise,” said the man when he saw Jeremy staring at him.

“Dad?”

“None other,” the man said, an ear-to-ear grin on his face.

Jeremy’s face turned dark red. “You son of a bitch. You abandoned Mom and me a decade ago and neither of us has heard from you since. How the hell did you find me and what do you want from me?”

“That’s an interesting story, son,” the man said.

➰➰➰

Nancy, The Sicilian Storyteller at The Elephant’s Trunk continues:

“I don’t have the time for this, old man 
. just like you didn’t have the time for me and mom so show yourself out. I got work to do.”

“Still got that high-and-mighty stubborn streak, I see, Jeremy. Well, maybe you’ll be singing a different tune when you hear what I have to say. In the meantime, toss me a brush; four hands are better than two.”

Despite himself, Jeremy was curious about why his father bailed on him and his mother and what he had to say. He stayed quiet while his father continued.

“It all started when the Bellamy Twins came blowing into town. Those sons of bitches were fired up and looking for trouble. And they came calling on me.”


➰➰➰

I’m going to pass the baton over to Lisa at Tao Talk and hope she’s keep it going.

Longer Stories, Story

Sky Mountain Pines: Part 2

To read Part 1, click ‘Previous Post’ below

© Misky

When Ekon and Mosi awoke they were not in the same place as the night before. They were in a higher elevation; it was colder and there were traces of snow. They were laying in a rudimentary tent, comfortably covered in blankets with a small fire nearby. Shiga happily munched on a shrub to which she had been tethered. Besides the change of location, there was a much more obvious and puzzling difference in father and son: both had aged approximately five years. Mosi looked to be about 25 years old and Ekon’s hair and beard were now as grey as the mountain sky.

A group of strange-looking men emerged from the woods and started walking in their direction; immediately Ekon patted his chest, feeling for the vial in his wrap, and was relieved to find it where he always kept it; he placed one drop on the tip of his tongue. The leader of the group, who looked like nothing more than a dead tree branch, spoke in a senescent voice, explaining that two of his people, while out hunting, had found Ekon, Mosi and Shiga unconscious near the brook and brought them back to a safe clearing just outside their village. The brook had been poisoned years ago after a mysterious storm and the tainted waters resulted in a deep, years-long sleep for anyone who drank; there was no antidote that they knew of.

These men were the last of the Twigorian order of monks; they were learned men, wise in the ways of the universe, science and nature. They lived among the members of the ancient San tribe as leaders and teachers. The chief monk assured Ekon and Mosi they were in no danger. When Ekon answered in San, the monks were surprised but quickly discerned that Ekon possessed the power of the Jal’mboor. After the men had talked for a while, a few San women approached; they asked Ekon and Mosi to follow them into the village where they would be able to wash, don clean clothes and eat. Mosi immediately caught the eye of a beautiful young woman called Tayla and they exchanged smiles.

Ekon and Mosi listened as the San people explained their ways. They knew how to preserve food in such a way that it could be dried to last a long time and reduced to a compact size for easy transport and storage. They developed a shield of invisibility which allowed them to disappear at the first sign of danger, thus avoiding any conflict, violence or harm to themselves or their land. They were philosophers and great thinkers but lacked basic skills such as tool-making and construction. Their homes were straw huts and tents in a great state of disrepair and their boats were rotting; everything was falling apart.

Mosi and Ekon told the San people of their quest to reach the top of the Sky Mountain Pines. Many had tried but very few succeeded. It was a treacherous journey but the San promised to help if Ekon and Mosi did something in return: teach them to make tools to build homes, boats and proper implements for hunting, fishing and farming. The pair agreed and spent the next two years working with the San people. During that time Mosi and Tayla fell in love and he promised to return to her after they reached the summit.

The San warned Ekon and Mosi about the Sanguine Precipice, the Gralapthian Dragon Den and the bloodthirsty gorillas known as the Ikorana Buhangi. The monks gave Mosi and Ekon a map to help them safely pass the precipice. In addition, the monks presented them with the invisibility shield to evade the monstrous beasts along their way. Their promise and mission now complete, Ekon and his son prepared to leave the San people the following morning.

Shiga was loaded down with new flasks containing safe, clean water, sacks of food, blankets and the invisibility shield. Bidding Tayla farewell, Mosi and Ekon followed the monks until they were safely on the other side of the poisoned brook. At the last minute, Mosi fetched a dozen old water skins and filled them with tainted water. Now they were truly on their own, prepared but anxious. The higher they climbed the colder it became and they blessed the San women for the warm clothing they now wore.

The pair hiked for days, sometimes not uttering a single word. In one terrifying second, their silence was shattered by horrific screeches and savage bellows. They knew they reached the first deadly threat: the Gralapthian Dragons. The sound of enormous flapping wings filled the sky and father and son covered their ears from the deafening noise. Mosi grabbed the invisibility shield just before catching a glimpse of the nightmarish creatures; he quickly covered himself, Ekon and Shiga, gently stroking the terrified mule’s nose to keep her quiet. The Gralapthian hovered over them, sniffing the air with gargantuan nostrils. Mosi gripped the shield tightly to keep it from flying off in the great gush of wind caused by the dragon’s wings.

The Gralapthian angrily flew away only to return moments later, obviously in the hope of catching their prey unawares. Again Mosi almost lost control of the shield. The Gralapthian spewed fire in different directions and spittle like molten lava rained down but Mosi, Ekon and Shiga stayed put undercover and the dragons missed their mark. Disgruntled, the Gralapthian flew off beyond the high pines. Mosi and Ekon remained where they were until they were sure all was safe. When they felt the time was right, they carefully retracted the shield and secured it onto Shiga’s back. The shield had served them well and once again they silently thanked the monks.

At first Ekon kept a journal of the passing days and nights but eventually lost count. They walked for what seemed an eternity and Mosi questioned himself a thousand times over if this was only a fool’s quest. Lost in their thoughts, Ekon and Mosi were surprised when they came to a divide in the path. Unsure which direction to go, they consulted the San map but it was of no help. Not knowing which way to turn, they finally settled on one of the paths; it proved to be the wrong choice.

Rounding a bend they found themselves face to face with the much-feared kings of the mountain – the Ikorana Buhangi Gorillas. They were hideous beasts, a mutation of a gorilla and a rhinoceros. Ekon froze as the monstrous creatures slowly came closer, snorting loudly, beating their breasts and baring massive teeth. Mosi thought quickly and placed a drop of the Jal’mboor potion on the tip of his tongue.

To the bewilderment of the gorillas Mosi began speaking in fluent Buhangarian: “We are travelers. We seek no trouble. All we wish is to pass by safely.”

The largest of the gorillas growled: “How is it you can speak to us, human?”

“We are magicians. We can offer you whatever you desire. What is your greatest wish?” Mosi asked, covering his fear.

“To rip your body to pieces and eat you!” shouted the Ikorana Buhangi.

“But you can do that any time. Surely there is something you desire above all other things” countered Mosi. “I repeat – what is your greatest wish?”

“ABSOLUTE POWER!” roared the beasts. “RULERS THE UNIVERSE!”

“If that is indeed your greatest wish, I can instantly grant it. It’s as easy as drinking the mystical waters in these skins” and Mosi tossed the twelve old water skins to the gorillas. They greedily swallowed every last drop the tainted brook water and were poisoned before they hit the ground. The earth under their feet shook from the tremendous weight of the gorillas but Mosi and Ekon were safe.

Elated with their quick thinking and great success over the Ikorana Buhangi, Ekon and Mosi quickened their pace as they moved on. Their relief was short lived, however, when they reached the Sanguine Precipice. Never before had they seen such a narrow path or so steep a cliff. Mosi checked the San map and saw a widening in the path about four feet ahead. Crossing that short but deadly span would mean victory or defeat, life or death. They could not make one false move. Mosi believed he and his father could do it but he wasn’t sure about Shiga. The men decided to lighten Shiga’s load by dividing it among themselves. She stood a better chance without the extra weight. Slow as snails they placed one foot before the other, Mosi leading Shiga and Ekon gently pushing her rear.

Just as they reached the safety of the clearing, Shiga lost her footing and landed full force on top of Ekon who howled in agony. Working quickly, Mosi uprighted Shiga and tied her to a tree, then he returned for Ekon. As soon as he tried to lift his father, Ekon screamed and fainted; Mosi immediately knew his father’s back was broken. Mosi gently carried Ekon and laid him in the shade of the Sky Mountain Pines; it was only then that he realized they had made it to the summit. His quest was complete but at what cost?

Slowly, Ekon opened his eyes and whispered “We made it, my son!” Then quietly he exhaled and died. Mosi cried out in grief and Shiga softly brayed where she stood, still tied to a tree. Mosi buried his father on the summit of the Sky Mountain Pines, laying his trusty spear across the grave. Snow began to lightly fall as Mosi packed his belongings and secured them onto Shiga’s back. Now, knowing the safe route, Mosi and Shiga began their trek back to Tayla and home to the Sangala Valley. They left the summit without looking back.

The End

NAR©2024

Music Director Thomas Dausgaard and the Seattle Symphony perform “In the Hall of the Mountain King” from Peer Gynt Suite No. 1 by Edvard Grieg

This portfolio (including text, graphics and videos) is copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR © 2017-present.

Story

Soft Touch

In previous years at this time we’d be covered in a blanket of snow.
With that in mind, here’s a story from January 14, 2023 ~ my response
to Linda G. Hill’s Just Jot it January 2024 prompt word: “toast”.

A couple of years ago, New York was hit by a major snowstorm. Wearing thick-padded booties, the snow silently tiptoed in while we slept and when we awoke there was a three-foot-deep crystalline blanket everywhere we looked. It was coming down pretty heavy and we could barely see anything in the backyard as we looked out our bedroom window 
 almost as if someone was standing on our roof shaking out a king size comforter full of feathers. Bill and I stood there for a while taking in the silent beauty of it all, then shuffled into the kitchen to prepare a pot of coffee and a few slices of my homemade banana bread. 

The instant we were done making breakfast, the lights went out. There was no point in trekking down to the basement to check the circuit breakers; we knew the area had experienced a power outage. We sat in the kitchen by the still-hot radiator enjoying our coffee and warm toasty bread, a pale white glow from the snow enveloping every room in the house. Before retreating to the living room, I poured our pot of coffee into a thermos to stay hot for a few hours.

I went to the closet and brought down Bill’s emergency hand-crank radio with LED flashlight, AM/FM stations including the NOAH weather channel, a power bank of phone chargers and USB ports. This baby would serve us just fine until the power was restored. In the meantime Bill ventured out to the frozen tundra of the screened-in porch to retrieve some logs for the fireplace.

Bill got a nice fire going while I set up the radio on the table between our recliners. The phone chargers and USB ports were lifesavers; we were able to keep our cell batteries from dying and my laptop going so I could work on my stories. I was even able to plug in my new electric blanket which used a handy dandy USB port. Bill marveled at the technology of the little red radio and only bemoaned one design flaw – there was no TV.

We were happily ensconced in our recliners enjoying our little haven. All was silent outside except for an occasional gust of wind and every so often we’d spot a blue jay out our front window picking berries off the holly bush. I think we must have dozed off for a bit when we were roused by the harsh sound of steady scraping. We listened for a few seconds, then realized someone was outside shoveling the snow. We peered out the window to see our two little neighbors, six-year-old twins Jackson and Connor, shoveling our front path. At least that’s who we figured they were; it was impossible to tell by the way they were bundled up. 

We sat back in our chairs, sipping our coffee and listening to the steady scrape-scraping of the boys’ shovels. Closer and closer the sound came; now they were clearing the steps leading to our front door. The adagio of their shovels was replaced by a sharp staccato knocking on our front door. I sank deeper into my blanket while Bill went to get some money to pay the enterprising kids, delighted that he didn’t have to shovel our front path himself. He opened the heavy wooden door and stood just inside the glass storm door to settle up accounts. Jackson and Connor stood on the front porch leaning on their shovels; toothless grins, cherry-red faces and sparkling blue eyes glistened in the still-rapidly falling snow which clung to their long blonde eyelashes.

“We cleared your path for you, Mr. Richy!” they proudly declared in unison, looking over their shoulders to admire their handiwork which was now covered by a fresh œ” of new snow. They looked back at Bill, staring up at him for his approval, their faces sporting the goofiest, most irresistible smiles imaginable. 

“I see that, boys, and a fine job it is, too” replied Bill. â€œSo tell me, what’s your going rate?“

With furrowed brows and crinkled noses the twins eloquently asked â€œHuh??”

“How much do I owe you for shoveling our path?” Bill asked in a way they could understand.

Very matter-of-factly with absolutely no sign of embarrassment or regret, the boys announced â€œOh, we’re not allowed to accept money. Our mom and dad said we have to do good deeds.”

“Hold that thought, boys, and don’t go anywhere.”

Bill scurried back into the living room. â€œAre you hearing any of this conversation?” he asked me, clearly incredulous. â€œA concept like that in this day and age is mind-blowing!”

“Well, what’s your game plan?” I asked, knowing Bill always had a plan brewing.

“My game plan? Why, I’m going to pay those boys for a job well done and toss in a few packs of PokĂ©mon cards just for good measure!” He was downright gleeful.

Bill scurried back to the boys and, opening the door just a crack to keep the cold out, shoved $20 and two packs of cards into their pockets.

The boys immediately started to put up a fuss about taking the money but Bill told them to stash it in their piggy banks for a rainy day and if their dad had a problem with it, he was more than welcome to come over and talk about it. With new-found treasures in their pockets, the toothless twosome raced home to show their friends their unexpected booty. Their little friends cheered loudly at the sight of the boy’s riches. Even their dad came out to see what the hubbub was all about.

The big financial deal now settled, Bill sat back in his recliner and sighed contentedly.

“You’re such a soft touch” I teased. “You’re rather pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

“As a matter of fact, I am!” he replied. â€œListen, I’m all for good deeds but when I was their age, I was out shoveling snow and I know it’s hard work. Those kids did a damn good job. If their dad objects to them getting paid, I’ll just tell him to think of it as a tip for his two fine sons. I can’t believe he’d have a problem with that.”

Well, it came as no big surprise when the twins soon returned and began shoveling the snow off our driveway – and this time they had reinforcements. Their momma didn’t raise no dummies! You haven’t lived until you’ve seen five six-year-olds shoveling one driveway like their little lives depended on it. 

“Better get your wallet out, Rockefeller. They’re back and they brought company” I laughed.

Bill may have unwittingly created a couple of monsters; during the spring the twins started going door-to-door pulling a wagon behind them. They were selling rocks! I’m reasonably certain their parents did not give permission for their budding business venture because it ended as abruptly as it started. Too bad; I’m sure they had the rock-selling market cornered. Very entrepreneurial kids; even Warren Buffett had to start somewhere!

Well, kind of a pity when you think about it. The boys scrubbed those rocks until they glistened in the sparkling sunlight. They really were impressive-looking rocks – there’s no denying that – but they were still just rocks, not exactly a priceless commodity.

Bill bought two. He’s such a soft touch.

NAR©2024
First published 2023

This is George Harrison with “Soft Touch”

This portfolio (including text, graphics and videos) is copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR © 2017-present.

Story

TIS THE SEASON

We headed out last night to buy our Christmas tree. It’s not like me to wait this long to decorate; it was just one thing after the other this year and before I knew it, Christmas was one week away and we still didn’t have a tree.

There’s one place in town we always go to; it’s run by the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) and I’d rather give them my money than some fancy nursery. At least I know all proceeds go to an excellent cause.

Right after Thanksgiving the VFW starts selling Christmas trees. A certain number of trees are immediately sent to our forces stationed overseas and others are donated to hospitals, nursing homes and other groups in need of trees to decorate. There’s a home for mentally challenged adults in my town as well as a religious retreat house run by Franciscan friars; both places receive multiple trees from the VFW.

We arrived at the tree lot around 3:30, just after the kids got home from school, and I was shocked to see some mighty slim pickings. Just the other day when I drove by there were hundreds of gorgeous trees – Blue Spruce, Scotch Pine, Douglas Fir and others. Where the heck had they all gone?

That’s exactly what I asked Phil, one of the volunteers who was working the lot last night. He told me that many of the trees were sold already, which was completely understandable; then he recounted something that just blew my mind.

The lot had been robbed the night before! Some clowns with a metal cutter snipped their way through the fence and in the middle of the night made off with about 150 trees! They were obviously organized and came with the manpower as well as the horsepower to make off with that many trees. They probably headed over to New Jersey or Connecticut to sell the trees at a huge profit.

Only despicable trash, the lowest of the low, would steal Christmas trees from the veterans! That’s like snatching a kid’s candy cane or taking an old man’s walker. It’s a real cheap shot and now the VFW was out thousands of dollars!

So, there we were on December 19th, standing in the middle of the VFW tree lot staring at a bunch of Charlie Brown Christmas trees. I actually thought about going home, climbing up to the attic and dragging down my mother’s old silver aluminum tree she used years ago when they were all the rage. But then Phil said something that brought me back down to earth.

“Sorry for the measly selection. If you head over to Redwood Nursery, I’m sure you’ll find a lot of beautiful trees to choose from.”

This guy and the VFW had just lost a ton of money and he was willing to sacrifice another sale just so I could have a gorgeous Christmas tree in my house. Wow, talk about the “Spirit of Christmas”!

We walked around the lot until we found a tree that was practically begging for us to take it home. Phil tied it onto the top of my car and we headed home.

We placed our new tree in a stand full of water and sat down for dinner. When we returned to the living room to decorate, that wonky tree looked a little fuller and stood a bit prouder and I knew it wasn’t my imagination playing tricks on me.

One little tree was all it took to remind me of the true meaning of Christmas.

NAR © 2023

This is “One Little Christmas Tree” by Stevie Wonder.

I hope you’ll join me today
as we continue with
In The Groove:
Sounds Of The Season.
It’s going to be a joyous week!

https://rhythmsection.blog/

Story

CHRISTMAS TREE COUP DE GRÂCE

Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge
is asking us to write a
Six Sentence Story
and to include the word “farm”.
This is my story.

My Tree

Early in our marriage, Bill and I inherited my parent’s ginormous artificial Christmas tree which we used for about ten years until it died; at that point our boys were very young and we thought it would be a nice family outing to go to one of the local nurseries to pick out a live tree, which was something we did for about four years until one Thanksgiving, while celebrating at my sister’s house in Rhinebeck NY, my brother-in-law mentioned they were going to Wonderland Farm the next day to get their Christmas tree (and you can bet my ears perked up at hearing a delightful fantasy name like that 
. Wonderland Farm 
. an utterly irresistible place if ever there was one and I definitely had to go!).

Well, it turned out that Wonderland Farm was a wholesale grower of Christmas trees, meaning people like you and I could go there, walk around the grounds until we found the perfect tree for our house, chop it down, drag it to the baling machine where it got bound and gagged and tied to the top of the car, then we had to drive the 90 miles home (the whole time checking to see if the tree was still on top of the car), drag the tree into the garage, saw off an inch or two from the bottom and let the tree sit in a bucket of water for a couple of days before bringing it inside to decorate; being totally unfamiliar with this activity and having young boys who thought it would be “awesome” to act like Paul Bunyan for a couple of hours, we decided to join in the tree chopping fad – a new family tradition that lasted for about three years until the back-breaking, ass-freezing novelty wore off.

Once we stopped cutting down our home-grown trees, we weren’t quite ready to bite the bullet and go cold turkey by putting up a fake tree, so back to the local nurseries we went for a few more years until that fateful day when I was un-decorating by myself and, while struggling to get the tree out the front door to the curb, I lost my balance and fell backwards into our partially frozen juniper bush; my hands and clothes were sticky from pine sap, I was a disheveled and scratched mess from wrestling my way out of the juniper, there was a trail of pine needles from my living room to the front curb, I was exhausted and achy and I’d had quite enough 
. the perfect storm, the live Christmas tree coup de grñce.

The following weekend the family hopped into the car and drove to the Christmas Tree Shop where we bought a nice big artificial tree which we lugged home and immediately tossed into the attic where it remained until the following December which turned out to be a huge mistake because when we finally opened the box, we discovered it was not the gorgeous fake evergreen we saw on display but a namby pamby shade of pink aluminum which was never going to fly in my house, so we packed it all up and returned to the Christmas Tree Shop where we were told “No refunds after 90 days of purchase”; logically, I knew that but it was still a bit of a blow because the store was to blame for the mislabeled box, so once again we found ourselves wandering around looking for a Christmas tree and we found something I’d never seen before – a skinny tree, fully decorated and lit, with its own storage bag, meant to fit neatly in the corner of a room – and we scooped that baby up and brought it home.

That skinny tree served us well but (you knew there was a ‘but’ coming, didn’t you?) for a skinny tree, that damn thing weighed a ton and lugging it up from its storage spot in the basement really took its toll on Bill’s rotator cuff [we still have that skinny tree neatly packed away in its storage bag and stashed in a corner of the basement and every time I go into that back room, it scares the hell out of me because I forget it’s there and it looks like a body bag up against the wall!]; now I was asking myself what we would do for our next tree and the answer came to me while at the dentist one day and I spotted his lovely 3-foot tall fiber optic tree with twinkling lights which seemed to speak to me in Morse Code saying “Buy me and put me right by the fireplace and surround me with nutcrackers”, so that’s exactly what I did and there it served us very well for a couple of Christmases …. until I saw something while searching for stocking stuffers on Amazon that turned out to be a veritable game changer.

There on Amazon was a gorgeous tree the likes of which I had never seen before and I read all about it (not once but twice) and ordered it yet I was still surprised when a package was delivered that resembled an extremely large pizza box which contained something that looked like a wreath that melted like the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz 
. it sure didn’t look like a Christmas tree and I was beginning to wonder if I’d made a mistake or if Amazon had sent the wrong item 
. but after laying out all the parts on the floor (which consisted of the melty-looking tree, a base and a pole), it all began to make sense and it was incredible to see it all come together; there’s no way I can adequately describe how wondrous this tree was in person or how amazingly easy it was to assemble so if anyone is interested in seeing for themselves just how easy it really is, go to Amazon.com and search for “Prextex Premium 6 ft Pre-Decorated Christmas Prelit Pop Up Tree” – but I must caution you 
. you may very well want a Christmas tree or two just like this for your very own home .
 and I absolutely couldn’t blame you!

See, exactly as I described it!

NAR © 2023

This is Brenda Lee and “Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree”

Story

THE CALL

Out of the blue the call arrived. It was late and I was beyond tired after a day of Christmas shopping and decorating. We were tempted to let it go straight to voice mail, but Gary thought it might be important. 

“Gary? Hi, it’s Alice from the adoption agency. I hope you and Carol are sitting down! We have a baby for you! Can you come by in the morning to talk?”

Gary stood up; his face registered shock. “What? My God! Are you sure?” Completely convinced that something terrible had happened, I grabbed the phone from Gary. “This is Carol Wheeler. Who’s this, please?”  

It was not bad news …. just the opposite. It was elating, magical, top-of-the-world, The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year news! 

A baby in need of a home! A baby for us to love!! 

“Yes!! We’ll be there! Oh, Alice. I’m so happy! Thank you so much!” I was rambling. 

Dumbstruck, we stood there 
. then pandemonium broke loose. Laughing, crying, hugging, kissing, dancing, tossing tinsel around the room like crazy people. Anytime would have been amazing but for this to be happening during the holiday season was wondrous!

We didn’t think 
. or even care 
. to ask “boy, girl, age, etc., etc.”? After eight years of trying to get pregnant and faced with disappointment each time, an incredibly strong and loving stranger was presenting us with the most precious gift imaginable. 

“Gary, do you realize in a few days we will be a family of three?” I asked breathlessly.

IN A FEW DAYS!!  

All tiredness forgotten, we raced to the attic for the plastic bins of assorted baby items. There in the corner stood the bassinet; it seemed to glow in the darkness. I believe at that moment I heard angels singing. We reverently carried it down to our room. I leaned into Gary, overcome with elated exhaustion. 

And then the phone rang a second time. We stared at it, afraid to answer, sure it was Alice calling to say the baby’s mom had changed her mind, there would be no happy family for us. 

I reached for the phone and wearily, warily said “This is Carol.”

“Carol, it’s Alice again. Sorry to bother you and Gary but there’s been a development.”

I closed my eyes waiting for the words I didn’t want to hear. Not now, not at Christmastime. Alice continued talking and I felt my knees growing weak.

Stunned, crying, all I could manage was a hushed â€œOh, Alice! Are you absolutely sure? How could this be happening? Yes. Yes, I understand.”  

I hung up the phone without even saying goodbye. I was already crying when I turned to face Gary. He held me close and whispered “Shh. It’s ok, honey. Everything will be ok. Another baby is out there waiting for us. It’s just a matter of time.”  

On tiptoes, I reached up to give my darling husband a little kiss. I murmured “I love you”, my mouth just brushing his. I looked into his eyes and spoke, my voice breaking.

“Oh, Gary. There was a mix up at the hospital and Alice was given the wrong information.”

Gary started to speak but I gently placed my fingers on his lips to quiet him. I continued.

  â€œAlice called just now to ask how we feel about adopting twins.”

I’m quite sure neither of us was breathing at that moment. Gary’s eyes grew wide as the realization sunk in and I let out a little laugh. Gary put up two fingers and mouthed the word “Two”. I nodded and replied “Two. Twin girls”.

We fell to the couch, a huddle of tears and laughter and hugs. Then I heard my love’s voice next to my ear: “I told you another baby was out there waiting for us!”

Twins! Oh, what a joyful Christmas this will be!

NAR © 2023

This is Mark Tremonti with “The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year”

I hope you’ll join me today
for an all new In The Groove
as I welcome in the holidays.
Stop by for some great tunes!
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Story

THE PIG JIG

Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge is challenging us to create
a Six Sentence Story using the word “detail”.
This is my response to that challenge.
(Revamped, rewritten and reposted from a 2022 story)

Recently, while talking with a friend, I asked her “What is your earliest childhood memory?” to which she replied her days in kindergarten and there may have been some mention of earwax and/or sticking bubble gum in her ears but that’s her story to tell; as it turns out, some of my early childhood memories also revolve around my kindergarten days and what a joy it was to be five years old when all that really concerned me was eating and playing.

My kindergarten teacher’s name was Mrs. Merchant and she could have been anywhere from 34 to 64 years old with her short, curly salt-and-pepper hair, rimless glasses, shirtwaist dresses, sensible shoes and sweaters (which she wore every day regardless of the temperature), but the single-most thing that stands out in my mind about Mrs. Merchant was the fact that she would discreetly vomit daily into a silver bowl which she kept behind the piano, and then cover the bowl with a towel and carry it off to the bathroom for a good washing; our mothers told us not to stare because it was rude but it was pretty damn hard to ignore your teacher puking behind the piano every day.

We did all sorts of fabulous things in kindergarten like arts and crafts, story time, marching band parades and show-and-tell but my favorite thing of all was the talent shows where we could sing, dance, tell a joke 
. basically whatever 5-year-old kids did that qualified as talent; I always sang a song and I remember every detail about one of my performances – my song, my little dance and most of all my costume, my little pig costume.

My mother, ever the creative seamstress, bought a child’s pair of pink one-piece Dr. Denton footed pajamas with a rear flap for “easy potty time” (if you don’t remember Dr. Denton pjs, you’re really missing out on something!) and she brought home some pink felt from the shop where she worked to make little pig ears and a curlicue tail which she fashioned out of a short length of a wire clothes hanger covered in pink felt and stitched to the little rear end flap of my pjs; my mother covered one of my plastic headbands with felt and attached the ears to it while my piggy nose was made from stiffly starched fabric covered with felt with two holes cut out on each side for the string which tied around the back of my head to keep my piggy nose in place like a mask.

I did a little Pig Jig which I can only describe as a cross between clogging and the tarantella and I was told I looked absolutely adorable but sadly 
. or luckily, depending on how you look at it 
. no photos remain of that momentous occasion – at least none that I’m aware of; I’m sure if there were any photos out there, someone would have used them to blackmail me by now, don’t you think?

Yes, those days in kindergarten were great and I believe Mrs. Merchant (who probably suffered from bulimia, poor thing) didn’t have a first name because I’d never heard it; I also wasn’t crazy about nap time because no 5-year-old wants to nap but what I wouldn’t give these days for a nice cozy afternoon snooze!

NAR © 2023

This is “School Days” by The Runaways.

Story

THE BIG STING

Open a map of New York, go as far east as possible and you’ll find the town of Montauk – a laid-back fishing village kissing the Atlantic Ocean. I lived there for the first 18 years of my life with my brother and parents before heading off to college.

Winters were harsh and barren, a sharp contrast to the summers teeming with tourists escaping the cramped and sweaty streets of Manhattan in search of the perfect wave, the perfect tan and the perfect lobster roll. Springtime in Montauk is mesmerizing with trees budding, flowers sprouting up through the ground and the delicious smell of the ocean. We’d keep the windows open at night and fall asleep to the sound of the waves.

Our house was off the beaten path, with only two neighbors within walking distance. In the house on the left lived a young couple with rambunctious five year old triplets: Timothy, Thomas and Theodore – ‘The Terrorizing Trio’. Befitting their status as triplets, the boys had identical mountain bikes – one red, one blue, one green – which they rode with wild abandon on the dirt road, through our back yards and down to the beach.

Our neighbor on the right was the usually phlegmatic Doctor MacGregor – never-married, retired history professor-turned-nature-enthusiast. He was particularly particular about the upkeep of his yard and the glorious profusion of flowers attracting all varieties of birds and insects. His pride and joy was a tall redwood apiary which housed eight honeycomb trays. Inside reigned the queen, surrounded by her working and droning subjects. Mac, our secret nickname for the professor, would don his protective gear every day and inspect the hives and the honey production, all the while puttering and muttering, making sure everything was as it should be. 

And it always was …. except for THAT day when mom happened to be outside hanging the laundry; she looked up at the sky and saw a huge black swarm rapidly approaching. Mom ran into the house and yelled for us to “close all the windows and doors”; we watched anxiously as thousands of buzzing bees hovered over our house, took a sharp turn and headed straight for town. After the bees took off, we were shocked to hear the usually mild-mannered Mac angrily shouting and cursing; we ran over to see what had gotten him all riled up.

Trevor, the triplet’s father, raced over from the other direction to see what all the commotion was about. We all arrived at the professor’s yard at the same time to discover a disheveled and blustering Mac wandering around the remnants of his beloved apiary. Splintered pieces lay in a heap on the ground, the redwood gouged and marred with clearly visible traces of blue, red and green paint. Trevor groaned audibly and raced out of Mac’s yard toward his own house, yelling out the triplet’s names as he ran. It was obvious they had crashed their bikes into the apiary and were probably hiding from the inevitable fallout.

As we silently helped Mac clean up the mess, we became aware of screaming and shouting off in the distance; it was coming from the village as horrified townsfolk ran for cover from the angrily stinging horde of bees.

It took a long time for the residents of normally tranquil Montauk to settle down after that day; the only one who benefited from the bee attack was the town G.P., who was kept busy tending sting after sting after sting.

As for Timothy, Thomas and Theodore …. they were found hiding behind their garage crying and covered from head to toe in bee stings. The boys were in a lot of discomfort (not to mention trouble). Trevor felt sorry for his sons and he was not unsympathetic but the triplets needed to be punished for the damage to Mac’s apiary. They were grounded for three weeks – one week for each boy – and their scraped bicycles were temporarily locked away in the shed.

As for Professor MacGregor …. he’s taken up birdwatching.

NAR © 2023

Join me today
for the third installment of
I’m With The Banned.

It’s a good one today!
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Story

ON THE BRINK

Today she would find out if her entire life was a lie.

“Where to, Mrs. Carmichael? Shall I call for your car?” asked her ever-attentive doorman, Harold. 

“Not today, thank you. Just walking up to Brooks Brothers to buy an anniversary present for my husband. It’s our 15th.” She remembered she also needed to make a stop at her psychologist’s office. 

“Congratulations, Mrs. C! You have yourself a nice day.”

Claire Carmichael smiled at Harold and walked the short distance to her therapist’s office on Earl Street. Ringing Dr. Brink’s doorbell, she waited for his ubiquitous snobbish greeting of “Enter!” 

“Welcome, Claire. Last time you were here we discussed your suspicions that Jeremy was having an affair. Why don’t we pick up from there?” he suggested. 

Clearing her throat and adjusting her skirt, she began. â€œI’m no longer convinced Jeremy’s cheating on me. I’m not saying that he’s never had affairs but something is different. Things have changed between us. They’re better. Jeremy’s calmer, more attentive, grounded. He’s home every night by 6:00 and we enjoy our weekends together. No more overnight, out-of-town business trips and I’m actually happy for the first time in years.” 

“Interesting” Dr. Brink acknowledged. “And to what do you attribute this change in Jeremy’s character?” 

“We had a long talk the other night and it wasn’t easy for Jeremy. He confided in me that he’s been having panic attacks for quite some time. He finally started seeing a psychiatrist who’s helping him tremendously. He’s on medication and takes an early lunch twice a week to see his doctor.” 

“And you believe him?” 

“I do” Claire replied, uncomfortable with her therapist’s skepticism. And she did believe Jeremy; his explanation was credible and heartfelt.

“Did Jeremy happen to mention his psychiatrist’s name?” 

Feeling rather nonplussed she replied “No, he didn’t and I didn’t ask. That would be prying – information I didn’t need to know. Now I really must get going. It’s our wedding anniversary and I have errands to run.” 

“Good luck, Claire. Ever vigilant!” he called after her. 

When Claire stepped outside there was a chill in the air; the sky was mottled and gray. That session unnerved her and she lingered for a while smoking a cigarette wondering what Dr. Brink meant when he said “Ever vigilant.” Muttering â€œshrinks!”, she wrapped her coat tightly around herself and quickly walked to Brooks Brothers. She chose a pair of monogrammed cuff links; they were elegant and ridiculously expensive but Claire wanted Jeremy to know how proud she was of him. 

Leaving the store Claire decided to go across the street to their favorite French restaurant and arrange for a special anniversary dinner to be delivered to their apartment. Looking up Claire’s heart skipped a beat and she felt dizzy. 

Exiting the restaurant was Jeremy, his arm around a captivating young woman. They were laughing, embracing and kissing as they walked. 

Stunned, Claire threw the box from Brooks Brothers into a trash can and hailed a taxi. 

“Where to, your highness?” The driver was uncouth with a big mouth, both physically and metaphorically. He chomped noisily on a cigar and Claire could smell his disgusting breath from the back seat. But he probably never cheated on his wife, she thought, acrid bitterness stinging the back of her throat. 

“Just drive” was all she said; the cabbie smiled greedily as he flipped the meter. 

NAR © 2023

This is Nancy Wilson singing “Guess Who I Saw Today”.

Story

THE HAUNTED WIND

It’s Samhain, my people!
đŸ”„đŸ”„đŸ”„

Monastic specters floated seamlessly between the leafless trees of the old forgotten cemetery. Round-eyed owls hooted from crooked branches while huge black crows swooped in and perched on weathered headstones. Sensing their imminent demise, the blind field mice scurried to and fro, frantically searching for safety. Alas, not fast enough for that one pathetic rodent chasing his own tail. The crow snatched him up and carried him off into the darkness. The weak and small have no rights in this most dreaded of places. 

It wasn’t always this mist-enshrouded, wind-swept graveyard; many years ago the cemetery was a pastoral spot surrounded by blossoming trees and shrubs.  It was lovely and visitors would come by frequently to pay their respects and linger for a while on a nearby bench. 

High on a hill above the cemetery stood the Olde Dutch Church. The property was expansive with an outstanding view of the Hudson River. The focal point of the church was the belfry with its majestic wrought iron weather vane that could be seen for miles.

One parched and squally night in late October while parishioners were awaiting services for the feast of All Hallows’ Eve, a giant thunderclap boomed, followed by an enormous lightning bolt which struck the weather vane. The glowing gas particles coursed their way down to the belfry, instantly setting it on fire. Within moments the entire church was engulfed in flames, imprisoning all inside. Horrified townsfolk who were still outside tried valiantly to save their friends, to no avail. The church had become an inferno.

The wind blew sparks into the cemetery, setting the wizened trees ablaze. The smoke was black, the air thick with an acrid stench. Those outside the church fell to their knees crying pitifully, covering their ears to block out the agonizing screams of the tortured. Finally, after what seemed an eternity in Gehenna, the screams became pathetic whimpers, then stopped completely and an eerie silence followed. 

Just then what was left of the church came crashing down, leaving nothing but a mountain of ashes and the grotesque, twisted remains of the once glorious weather vane. 

Forty-seven souls perished that ghastly night. Nothing that resembled a body was found, nothing was left to be buried and the church was never rebuilt. Eventually people stopped coming to the cemetery. The only denizens there now are the unremembered interred along with the owls, the crows, the blind field mice and forty-seven specters seeking final rest. 

The haunted wind is eerily unsettling this Halloween night, my friends 
. or is it the wind? 

NAR © 2023

This is ACâšĄïžDC performing “Hells Bells”:

It’s the last day of October
and the final edition of
Metal Madness!
You do not want to miss this one!

Seriously.
đŸ”„ đŸ€˜đŸŒ đŸ”„
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Story

A PIG IN A POKE

As soon as Briana Jeffries woke up she knew her AC had broken down. Her townhouse was like a sauna. She called the landlord to report the malfunction, then got ready for work. Stepping outside, she was enveloped in a cloud of oppressive heat. 

Briana’s townhouse didn’t have a garage – only street parking was available. Slipping off her suit jacket, she adjusted her shoulder bag and began walking to her car. With every step she took, a bead of sweat rippled down her neck and back until her blouse clung to her drenched body. She cursed her high heels and pantyhose but the real estate agency where she worked demanded appropriate attire at all times. 

“I really should switch to McConnell Realty. They’re much more relaxed than Dalton & Banks” she thought as she got into her car and switched on the AC. Sure, the commission she earned was great but she wasn’t truly happy. And dealing with that smarmy, perpetually tanned Joe del Vecchio was nauseating.

First on the agenda was the Monday meeting, then Briana’s client at 10:30. With five houses to show, it was going to be a long day. As soon as she entered the office, Joe was all over her. “Looking hot, Briana. Nice lipstick. Looks all pouty. I like that. I’m gonna start calling you BJ. Know what that means?” She always hated her initials.

What a dick. The only reason Joe was tolerated at the agency was the older female clients adored him and he could charm the panties off them – and probably did if it meant making a sale. Ignoring him, Briana sat at the mahogany table between two colleagues. 

“Attention!” Charlotte Dalton announced. “We have a large number of senior citizens today who want to see penthouses. Briana and Joe, I want you working together.” Briana sighed in exasperation, already defeated knowing she’d be with Joe all day. Joe grinned and winked across the big conference table, chewing on his pen.

“What a Neanderthal” Briana thought. 

By day’s end Briana was sick of Joe and couldn’t wait to be rid of him but he insisted on walking her to her car. “Let’s get a drink, moisten that luscious BJ mouth.” Involuntarily Briana licked her lips; Joe leaned in for a kiss as Briana slid into her car.

“Stop it, Joe! I just want to go home, take a shower and go to bed.” She immediately regretted her choice of words. Joe bent down and whispered in Briana’s ear. â€œYou read my mind, baby. How’s about we have us a little party?” His fingers played with the delicate chain that dangled between Briana’s breasts. She pushed his hand away and drove off, nearly knocking him off his feet. It was at that moment Briana decided that was her last day at Dalton & Banks. 

Arriving back at home, Briana was grateful to find the AC working and the house delightfully cool. Closing the door behind her, she kicked off her shoes, peeled off her damp clothes and headed for the bathroom. Briana slid open the glass door and stepped into the shower. The warm water was so relaxing. She turned around so the water could run down her back. Briana felt the stress leaving her neck and shoulders and she sighed contentedly. “Ah, this is heaven.”

Funny how your mind plays tricks on you sometimes. Eyes closed, Briana thought she heard a noise outside the bathroom. She stood still, listening; nothing. Reaching for the shampoo, Brianna thought she heard a noise again. She listened intently; this time she was sure. SOMEONE WAS IN HER HOUSE!!

Instinct kicked in and Briana lunged from the shower to lock the bathroom door just as Joe del Vecchio burst in, knocking her backwards into the shower. Briana’s head slammed into the tiles; blood tricked down her face and into her eyes. As she began to lose consciousness, she slid down the shower wall and barely made out the image of Joe running from her bathroom. She fell face down onto the shower floor, blood swirling down the drain. Clutched in her hand was Joe’s monogrammed pocket square.

Briana was right. That was her last day at Dalton & Banks. 

NAR © 2023

From the White Album, this is the Beatles doing “Piggies”.

Please join me today
at The Rhythm Section
for another edition of
Metal Madness
đŸ€˜đŸŒ
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Story

THE GRAND OPENING

Trigger warning: offensive and insensitive language, racial slurs.

Eddie & Jay

“Didn’t touch! Only looked!” wailed Eddie, the dishwasher at the Q.E.D. Lounge. The waitstaff came running into the kitchen upon hearing a tremendous crash. Shattered crystal covered the kitchen floor – the new shipment of assorted glasses for the lounge’s grand opening. 

Eddie huddled in the corner wiping his runny nose on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, whimpering like a frightened boy. Due to that one decisive extra chromosome, Eddie was very much like a child – a 32 year old man with the mind of an eight year old. Just a little thing called Down Syndrome. Eddie’s brother Jay, the maitre d’, crouched down next to him while everyone stood in stunned silence. 

“Eddie, accidents happen. It’s gonna be ok” Jay said calmly. “C’mon, bud. We’ll help you clean up.” 

Without hesitation the crew grabbed brooms and dust pans – everyone except Lou, the belligerent bartender. 

“Don’t look at me. I ain’t helping!” snarled Lou. “It was that goddamn retard’s fault. He shouldn’t even be around normal people, fucking mongoloid!” 

Jay clenched his fists, eyes glaring at Lou.” Shut your filthy mouth, you miserable son of a bitch! Don’t ever talk about my brother like that!” 

Martin Byrnes, manager of the Q.E.D., stormed into the kitchen. â€œWhat the hell’s going on?!” Slowly he looked around, taking in the whole scene.  Martin asked everyone to leave except Eddie, Jay and Lou. 

Martin spoke softly. â€œEddie, it’s ok. I’m not mad. Can you tell me what happened?” 

Eddie glanced over at Lou, then shook his head ‘no’

“Mr. Byrnes is real good to us, Eddie. He deserves the truth” Jay added encouragingly. 

Eddie sniffled and rubbed is swollen eyes. “I saw all the boxes and I was curious, Jay, but I didn’t touch them, cross my heart and hope to die. Then Lou, he came rushing in the back door and pushed me into the boxes and they fell.” 

“You lying freak!” yelled Lou. â€œI was out back chasing that bum who’s always looking for a handout. Eddie’s mangy mutt was there and he tore a hole in my pants cuff!” 

“Yeah, after you kicked him, I’m sure” declared Jay.  

“Ok, Lou. What happened when you came back into the kitchen?” asked Martin. â€œWere you so ticked off at the dog that maybe you bumped into Eddie?” 

“Look, Mr. B. I’m telling you I didn’t do nothing” sneered Lou. â€œWho you gonna believe – this idiot or me?” 

“Alright! That’s enough! What’s done is done.” Martin sighed. â€œJay, you and Eddie finish cleaning up in here. Lou, go down to the basement and bring up whatever glasses you can find. We’re opening tonight as planned.” 

Disgruntled, Lou headed for the basement. He remembered a prior shipment of glasses that Martin didn’t particularly like. Rather than return them, they were put in storage. And there they were, two towers of boxes at least four feet fall. 

“Why am I stuck doing this shit job? Where’s that lazy spic busboy?” Lou grumbled. He walked to the delivery entrance and shouted “Hey, Manuel! Get in here!” Then he gave a shrill whistle.

Manuel didn’t answer Lou’s command but Eddie’s dog Arlo did. He was still smarting from the swift kick in the ribs from Lou’s pointy patent leather shoe. Arlo growled and inched closer, baring his sharp canines.

Lou backed up as fast as he could but he wasn’t fast enough. Arlo sank his teeth into the bartender’s calf and wouldn’t let go. He meant business and was out for revenge – for himself and for Eddie. 

Spinning around like a whirling dervish, Lou smashed into the stacks of boxes. He fell to the floor as splintered wood and jagged glass rained down on him. As a final coup de grĂące, Arlo lifted his hind leg, pissed on Lou’s patent leather shoes and trotted out the door. 

NAR © 2023

It’s all new
Birthday Thursdays
at The Rhythm Section.
No talk, no fuss, no muss.
Just wall-to-wall music!
Stop by and check it out!
🎂
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Story

THE REGISTER

“Gallagher’s B&B, a beautiful old Georgian country house in Tipperary, set in lovely wooded grounds and gardens. A warm welcome combined with superb food make this gracious house a tranquil refuge for those on honeymoon, couples celebrating a golden anniversary or anyone looking for that special opportunity to get away from it all! You’ll rest peacefully at Gallagher’s!” recited my bride Fiona breathlessly.

“How do you do that??” I asked for the fiftieth time since we met. 

“I can’t help having a photographic memory! It’s a blessing and a curse!” she laughed. 

It had been raining lightly and getting accustomed to driving on the other side of the road was challenging. As we turned the bend, the B&B appeared before us looking exactly like something out of a Thomas Moore poem. Just then the sun broke through the clouds, a rainbow in its wake. 

“Look, Dylan! A rainbow! declared Fiona excitedly. “I’m going to make a wish!” 

I chuckled at her childlike enthusiasm. We entered the old but immaculate building and a kindly lady was there to greet us at the front desk. â€œI’m guessing you’re the Colcannons. I’m Kathleen. Welcome! Would you be kind enough to sign the register?” 

Fiona giddily signed the guest book. “Ah, newlyweds! There’s no mistaking that glow about ya, lass” Kathleen said,  smiling broadly. “Our last guests departed yesterday so you’ll have the whole place to yourselves.” Handing us the key to our room, we were informed that dinner would be served at 7pm. 

Our room was charming with a view of the rear gardens. Just before dinner we checked out the library. It was small but offered a variety of books from ‘Time Travelers’ to the writings of Diogenes. Dinner was phenomenal – leek and potato soup for starters, then Kathleen’s own creation called Guinness beef and onion pot pie. Dessert was an amazing apple crisp with vanilla bean ice cream and a perfectly brewed cup of coffee. Exhausted and full, we retired early, looking forward to sightseeing in the morning. 

The next day we were served a traditional Irish breakfast of eggs, bacon, hash, toast, marmalade and Lyons Tea. “I’m stuffed! You up for a walk?” I asked Fiona, and off we went exploring. Typical of Ireland, the day was overcast and as we walked along the path we came upon a cemetery. Slowly we weaved our way among the headstones, reading aloud the names as we went along. 

“This is one for the record book of coincidences” said Fiona. “Yesterday when I signed the register I remember seeing the name ‘Guinness’ and dinner was Guinness pot pie. Another name in the register was ‘Lyons’ and this morning at breakfast we had Lyons Tea. And now here are two headstones with those very same names! That’s truly incredible!” 

“It’s just your photographic memory working overtime, Fiona. Both those names are pretty common here. I don’t think it’s terribly incredible, luv.” 

 Fiona gave me a playful shove and we continued our walk. Strolling by the gardens, we discovered Kathleen busily gathering vegetables. â€œWhy, if it isn’t Mr. & Mrs. Colcannon out for a morning stroll”. She proudly showed us the potatoes she’d just dug up. “For tonight’s dinner”, she explained. “A combination of mash with bacon and cabbage cooked together in butter and blended with a lovely ladle-full of cream.” 

“Oh, my goodness! That sounds delicious!” declared Fiona â€œWhat’s it called?” 

Kathleen looked up at us from her crouched position. “Why, I reckon it’s a name you’re quite familiar with.” Then, moving very swiftly for a large woman, she jumped up and began hacking wildly with her machete! Grinning like a madwoman, she shrieked “It’s called Colcannon!” 

The last thing I remember seeing was my darling Fiona’s head roll to the ground. I was felled by an excruciating pain in my neck while Kathleen cackled hideously. Then the whole world went black. 

NAR © 2023

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round two of
In The Groove?
Come check it out.
It’s gonna be a hot one!
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Story

MOAI MAN

© Nancy Richy

He was covered with dirt, leaves, broken branches and assorted detritus of a dozen or more years’ worth of storms and the forces of nature 
 dismissed, ignored, abandoned and forgotten 
 never given a scant thought until I came upon him, and even in his forlorn and dejected state, cast off and tossed aside, he was still majestic and I knew I had to give him breath, new life, a home, a place of honor.

After pulling him from the webs of thorny bushes and strangling ivy, I wrapped him in a blanket, secured him inside my car and drove home where I positioned him on a table in my potting shed and gave him a thorough wipe-down; he was in remarkably good condition for having spent all that time in the elements 
 after all, he is not made of stone or plaster or concrete but of wood and still there was no rot, no boring holes from worms or bugs, no tiny gnawing marks from rodents as if he had commanded them all to stand back, to keep their distance.

A gentle sanding was all that was needed to remove any loose and chipping paint; there was hardly any, a sign that this proud fellow refused to allow years of snow, rain, wind and unrelenting sun to wear him down.

I primed my pump sprayer and, with a slight nod of deference to this royal figure, I began applying a fresh coat of paint as black as pitch 
 new garments meant for a prince; in constant, sweeping motions I covered him from head to toe until he was gleaming in a slick veneer of ebony, a raven cloak.

When the paint was dry, I raised him up in my arms and carried him out to a spot specifically chosen for him, a place where he will be seen by all, where he will proudly reign.

He is my Moai Man, carved by the Rapa Nui; his name is Jude and his bearing is regal. 🗿

NAR © 2023